


Killing Time

by rowofstars



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Assault, Blood, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Exes, F/M, Flashbacks, Flirting, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hyperion Heights (Once Upon a Time), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Miscarriage, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panic Attacks, Post-Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fic, Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold as Detective Weaver, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Spanking, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Wall Sex, Writer's Month 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2020-07-28 18:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 53,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20068666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer's Month 2019.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 1: Annoyance.
> 
> I cannot promise if there will or won't be more of this. I'm sorry I'm like this. I know I need another WIP like I need another hole in my head. This is not a cursed AU.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No way in Hell.”

Weaver glared and folded his arms, while across the table, Belle did the same.

“Look,” said Captain Humbert, exchanging a look with District Attorney Midas to his left. “I don’t care what your feelings are, Detective. You put them aside for this case.”

Midas leaned back in his chair, making the leather creak. “The same goes for you, French. I know you two have history…” He glanced back and forth between them, noting the way Weaver tried to hide a smirk, and how Belle looked down at her notepad for the briefest second. “But you are the best this city has, and we need a conviction.”

“Weaver,” Humbert continued, “you are on indefinite loan to the District Attorney’s office for whatever investigative needs ADA French has. You’ll be liaising with Rogers if you need any resources from the department.”

Weaver made a grumpy noise of reluctant agreement, and a moment later Belle exhaled and nodded as well. Their superiors left the room a minute later, and he sighed. On the other side of the table, Belle was tapping her pen and staring down at her legal pad. As much as he hated, it Humbert was right. A serial killer had paralyzed the city for nearly a year, and catching him had taken its toll on everyone involved. He’d nearly lost everything, including his life.

“Are you going to be able to talk to me?” he asked, sitting forward with his hands folded on the table. “Or are you just going to email me what you need done?”

She looked up at him and raised her eyebrows. “That depends on if you’re going to be an asshole who keeps everything to himself and only tells me what he thinks I need to know.”

His jaw worked and he turned his ring absently. Her eyes caught the motion and flicked down, a small gasp slipping out when she saw the gold on his left ring finger. He quickly pulled his hands off the table into his lap and met her eyes.

Belle swallowed and pressed her lips together. She hadn’t expected to see Weaver when she got called to a special meeting with her boss and the Captain of the 9th precinct, and she certainly hadn’t expected to see him wearing that ring. There had been such a harsh finality to their parting that she wondered if their relationship had ever been what she’d imagined it to be. Suddenly her own hand felt strangely bare and she curled her hand into a fist to fight the urge to touch the spot that had once held a matching gold band with three petite round diamonds set in the top.

_Today. Tomorrow. Forever._

That’s what he’d said they meant when he proposed.

She licked her lips and watched his gaze dip to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, well, old habits, right?” The small smile she gave him as she nodded relieved some of the tension in his body. “So, where do we start?”

Belle stood up and slapped her hand down on top of a file box sitting on the table to her right. “With this and the six other boxes of evidence in my office.”

Weaver let out a humorless laugh, wondering if it was possible for the next few months not to end in disaster, shagging each other senseless on any available surface, or both. He pushed himself up, and came around the end of the table to her side, standing just a little closer than he probably should have. She didn’t move away, but her eyes narrowed.

Then he picked up the thick cardboard box and inclined his head. “Lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A time jump to set the stage for what's to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be plot. Oops. For prompt #2 of Writer's Month: hurt/comfort. This isn't exactly that, but there will be plenty of it. I promise I'll fill in both how we got here and where we're going. Sorry if this is all confusing. It makes soooo much more sense in my head. Now dedicated to the fantastic and wonderful and talented thatravenclawbitch. This is officially her "birthday" fic. Guess she gets to celebrate all month. ;)  
**Please note the tag additions which are relevant to this chapter and the rating change.** There will be descriptions of injuries, blood, and references to the actions of a serial killer through the rest of this. I also promise not to be too graphic or gory on any of that if I can help it. Please let me know if you feel I need any additional tags or archive warnings.

_12 weeks later..._

Weaver hated hospitals.

There was something about the smell, the stark white colors with scattered dashes of blue and beige, that made him unsettled and anxious. Being surrounded by the sick and injured didn’t help either. He’d spent a fair bit of time in them in the course of his career in law enforcement, but only twice as a patient. The first was when he was nine and a fall at the playground ended with his arm in a sling for six weeks. The second, when he was a few decades older, left him with a scar near his right shoulder, just below his collarbone, and a matching one on his back.

The doors slid open, sending a rush of cool air into the summer heat. Weaver charged through them, waving his badge at the receptionist on his way through the automatic doors that lead to the ER. Inside was a cacophony of activity. A pair of nurses criss-crossed the hall in front of him, making his steps halted and squeaking his boots against the tile floor. A second later a doctor leaned out of an exam room and barked orders to someone unknown. Shrill noises assaulted his ears and he made a face as he dodged the gauntlet of moving bodies.

“Excuse me, sir!” came a voice from behind him, and he spun around, holding up his badge with authority.

“Where is she?”

A tall woman with a wavy blonde ponytail swinging from the back of her head, frowned at him. “Who?”

Weaver huffed, and glanced down at her name tag. “You know who. The same person every other copper is here for, ADA French. _Where is she?_”

The woman, a nurse named Mallory, softened. “Oh, sorry, it’s been a night. There were so many people coming in and out we moved her over to Urgent Care.”

“And how do I get there?”

“Through those doors,” she said pointing, “but you need to check in at reception!”

Weaver was already off before she got out her instruction. Let them send security or whoever after him, he didn’t care. Belle wasn’t in the ER which meant her injuries couldn’t be that serious, but the tension and adrenaline keeping his exhausted body upright wouldn’t abate until he saw her with his own eyes. 

The Urgent Care unit was less frenetic than the ER proper, but it still took him a few minutes to find a nurse, invoke his badge _again,_ and scowl his way to Belle’s location.

“Belle,” he breathed, stopping just inside the doorway of exam room eleven. “Hey.”

Belle looked up from her phone, her brow knit in confusion. “Hey, Ian, what -”

He crossed the room in long strides and wrapped her in a tight hug, both arms around her shoulders and a hand cradling the back of her head. She let out a gasp and a grunt of pain that made him pull away.

“Shit, sorry!” 

He stepped back and put up his hands, noticing for the first time the blood staining her blouse, the torn sleeve, and the cut on her forehead held closed with three small, blue stitches. She was missing her shoes and there was more red caked around her toes and the hand in her lap, making it look like she’d given herself the world’s worst mani-pedi. 

_She could have died,_ he thought. _I could have lost her._

Rage made his face heat and his jaw tense. “I’ll _fucking_ kill him.”

Weaver pivoted sharply and stalked towards the door, but Belle slid off the exam table and caught him by the arm. “Ian, _no._” He hit the door frame with his fist, making a loud, solid thump, and turned around. “Stop.”

Her eyes were overbright and shining, and he swallowed hard. “I have to, Belle. He can’t get away with -”

“He won’t,” she insisted. “Please, let it go. The police -”

“I _am_ the fucking police!” he snapped, bringing his face close to hers. He could smell the sickly metallic tang of blood mixed with the lighter scent of her shampoo, and his stomach rolled. “I should be out there. I should be the one to bring him in.”

“Oh, right,” she scoffed. “So you can hunt him down like a vigilante? Take out your pent up bullshit with me on him?”

His eyes went wide. “Belle, that’s _not-_”

“No, of course not. I suppose you’ll say you’re saving the city money by shooting him instead of bringing him to justice.”

“Fucking justice," he said, looking up at the ceiling and then back to his ex-wife. "How could I forget that you’d rather spend months on research and a trial, all so that psychotic wanker can live the rest of his life on three meals a day -”

Her nose flared and her eyes flashed with anger and she inched closer, shouting over him. "Killing someone is not justice!"

" - and fucking cable TV!"

Their commotion brought the nurse to the room. It was the same one who had confronted Weaver in the ER earlier, and she didn't seem surprised to find out that he was the cause of an argument that could be heard down the hall. “Is everything okay in here?”

Belle tugged in annoyance on Weaver’s arm, making him move out of the doorway. “Yes, sorry. Everything is fine.”

Mallory gave Weaver a suspicious glare, and then looked back at Belle. “Your CT was negative, ma'am, so you’re cleared to leave. The doctor will be in shortly to talk you, while I get your discharge papers ready.”

The nurse left and Weaver frowned. “CT?”

Belle sighed and moved back to stand by the exam table. “Yeah, the asshole caught me with an elbow,” she explained, pointing up at her forehead. “They thought I might have a concussion, hence the CT.” His hands curled into fists at his side, and she shook her head. “I’m fine, Ian.”

He let out a huff and rolled his eyes. “You’re covered in _blood,_ you’re clearly _not_ fine. You had -”

“It’s his blood.” Her eyebrows lifted when he stopped speaking, and she couldn’t help the little twitch of her lips as she held back a grin.

Weaver’s head tipped back a bit and he gave her a small, impressed smile. “Yeah?”

Belle shrugged, folded her arms, and leaned against the table. “Eight inch chef’s knife to the thigh.”

He laughed and shook his head as he stepped closer, imagining the shock on the sick fucker's face when petite Belle French stabbed him with a knife almost as long as her forearm. In spite of the fact that he probably would have shot the arsehole dead on sight, he wished he could have seen it. He'd always known Belle wasn't to be trifled with, and that her temper ran as hot as his own. “Well, that’s one wedding present that got put to good use.”

She grinned, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “He won’t get far, if he gets anywhere. Graham’s got everyone out searching, and Rogers promised to call me the minute they know anything.”

Weaver nodded, finally feeling the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax and the thumping in his chest subside. Belle was going to be okay, and she’d gotten a piece of the killer besides. “I’d still feel better if I was out there."

She reached for him and gave his arm a squeeze through his jacket. “I know, but -” Her mouth pursed for a moment as she took a breath. “I need your help.”

“Anything you need, Belle. You know that.” He raised a hand and brushed his fingers against her hair, right above the small gash caused by the struggle. It was matted at the crown with blood, and he had to force his anger down again.

“Well,” she started, looking to the side as his hand fell away. “I could use a place to stay for a bit. My apartment is...sort of a crime scene.”

He swallowed hard. Belle in his flat. _Their flat._ Well, what used to be their flat, before she moved out and the rest of their communication was through lawyers and paperwork. He was a little surprised she would ask, given how they had left things just a couple of days ago. Given what had happened between them in the last few weeks, he wasn’t sure that being in close proximity was a good idea for either of them, but he couldn’t say no to the woman he still loved, even if she didn’t feel the same, and he wasn’t about to trust the job of protecting her to anyone else.

“Of course,” he answered softly, just as the doctor came into the room with a tablet in his hand.

A few minutes later, Belle was discharged with some pain killers and an overly lengthy packet of instructions on how to tend her stitches, and when to come back so they could be taken out. Weaver walked with her through the parking lot, his hand hovering at her back, but not daring to touch. They were on uncertain ground with each other. There was a serial killer on the loose, the second in as many years, but he was shocked to realize that in this moment, outside Hyperion Memorial Hospital helping his injured ex-wife into his car, that he felt more hope than he had in a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Weaver go back to his place, but the immediate aftermath of her attack, and being in the home they shared, is a little more than either of them is prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt #5 of Writer's Month: sound.  
Oh man. Y'all, I have such plans for this and I feel like I'll fail miserably at doing all of it. A couple new tags added: PTSD and Nightmares.

The ride to their former shared residence was quiet, save for the patter of rain that had started to fall. Belle was uncharacteristically still. Usually she would fidget in the car, adjusting the air vents every few minutes, running her fingernail around the button for the window, or looking at her phone. Weaver stole a glance at her when they stopped at a light, his lips pressed in a tight, thin line. She was looking out the window, her face illuminated by a strange mix of red, green, and yellow lights from outside.

He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what was appropriate for the situation. Usually he was watching others deal with the aftermath of a violent crime, family members, victims, witnesses, all processing events differently and trying to make sense of what their lives were now. He preferred being part of catching the perpetrator, helping bring some measure of closure to a chapter most people wanted to forget. It was outside of the sticky, emotional mess, almost passive in a way compared to the turmoil that went on inside the people he watched. This was wholly different. This was Belle, and whether she wanted him to be or not, he felt he should be a far more active participant. They both knew from the outside the things that would and could happen, but it didn't necessarily prepare you for the experience.

He pulled the car over in the first available space on the block, and looked over at Belle.

“You're sure you want to stay here?” he asked, resting his hand on the gear shift. “I could take you to a hotel, or one of the department’s safe houses?”

Belle gave him a wry smile. “A Motel 6 by the airport? No thanks.”

He nodded in acquiescence and opened the car door. “Whatever the lady wants.”

Her smile was just a little bit sly, but it faded quickly as she stepped inside the old building. It was the first time she'd been back since Sabine helped her move out her, since she'd made their separation as final as it could be. It was strange how she still sometimes thought of the top floor loft as home, how her apartment seemed like only a place to sleep and not a sanctuary from the harsh reality of the city the way the place they shared had been. There was something about the brick and stone, the old beams and exposed ducting, that for all it's cool industrial vibe, made her feel warm and safe.

The old elevator had been refurbished recently, with a new set of proper sliding doors instead of the ancient iron gate that had to be manually opened and closed. She commented on it and Weaver shrugged, mumbling something about bloody building codes. They shared a brief, amused look that shifted as they came to a stop at the top floor.

Belle waited while he unlocked the door and the deadbolt, and punched in the PIN code to turn off the alarm. It was still her birthday month and day, judging by the familiar tones of the buttons, and it made her second guess whether any of this was a good idea.

She followed him inside, glancing around the space as he relocked the door, noting the little things that had changed. The pictures on the mantle were gone, which wasn't that surprising given that most of them were of the two of them, and he'd replaced the floor lamp by the recliner. The one that had been there before had a little adjustable reading light on the side she liked to use in the evenings when he was working late. It made sense why he wouldn't want it around anymore, too many memories of coming home to find her curled up in a blanket, an open book or her Kindle on her lap, asleep in its glow.

He'd carry her to bed so gently she almost never woke up. 

Weaver took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the barstools that sat at the kitchen island. Most of the place was the same as when she left. He kept the same furniture, the same arrangement of everything. He didn’t need to wonder if she had noticed. Her eyes were moving around the room, taking it all in again, and he bit back a sigh.

"Hasn't changed much,” she said finally. It was as if he'd just removed the last bits of her from his life and carried on. Something about that made her chest tight, but she turned to see him watching and forced a smile.

He shrugged. "Are you hungry? Did you eat anything before...?"

He gestured towards her, and she shook her head. “No, that's actually what I was doing when he...” She she looked down briefly at her bloodied clothes and then shifted her eyes over his shoulder and into the kitchen. Her voice seemed far away when she spoke. “I was staring into the fridge trying to decide what sounded edible.”

“Leftover lo mein from Chang's or cold Hawaiian pizza from Mario's?”

He smirked when she looked at him, and she halfheartedly glared back. “It was _lasagna_ from Mario’s if you must know.”

He raised his hands, lips still curved in a bemused smile. At least they could tease each other and avoid some of the awkward tension. “I stand corrected. So, no, you haven't eaten then. Do you want... some eggs?”

A soft sigh slipped out and she nodded. It was her old standby when nothing sounded good, or she didn't have the energy for anything else. Whenever she came home late, lost a case, or had a bad day, he would make her a big, fluffy plate of scrambled eggs. It was simple and somehow always one of the best things she'd ever tasted. That was probably because he made them just for her. 

Somehow they were never quite the same when she had to make them herself.

Weaver moved around the island and took out a pan before moving to the refrigerator and pulling it open.

She could have sat down at the breakfast bar and watched him cook, just like old times, but she was covered almost head to toe in dried, crusted blood, some of it hers, some of it not. The thought made her cringe. “I'm gonna shower if that's okay?”

“Of course.” He swallowed and turned away from the fridge with a carton of eggs in his hand. “Two or three?”

Her teeth pulled at her lip for a moment before she answered, “Just two, please.”

She heard the rattle of the pan against the stovetop as she turned and walked to the bathroom.

* * *

The shower did Belle a world of good, even if halfway through she was nearly scared out of her skin by Weaver slipping in to leave her a shirt and a pair of shorts to wear. 

She had completely forgotten about not having any clothes or toiletries in the chaos of the incident, the police, and the hospital. Fortunately, Weaver had kept some of the things she’d left behind like partial bottles of her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, tucked away on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. She didn’t want to think about why.

He showered while she was eating, and for a little while, it felt like she’d gone back in time, as if the last two years were all a bad dream. Part of her wished that were true. It would be so easy to slip back into old habits, but she wasn’t sure if they could reclaim the comfort and ease with which they’d integrated into each others lives. 

They were different people now, weren’t they?

Weaver came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, bare but for a towel around his waist, right as she was putting her plate in the sink. It nearly slipped from her hand, and the sharp clatter of the fork hitting the stainless steel, startled him and made him stop.

“All right?” he asked, gripping the top of the towel with one hand.

Belle nodded and looked down at her hands, feeling a warmth creep up the back of her neck. “Fine.”

He gave her a strange look before he went into the bedroom, and she blew out a breath. This was ridiculous. They’d seen each other naked more times than she could count, even fairly recently, and there was no reason either of them should feel ashamed or awkward. She knew she’d feel safer and probably sleep better knowing Ian was nearby, but the tension created by everything that had happened in the last few weeks was getting worse. Something needed to give, but for now there was nowhere else for her to go.

She ran a hand through her hair, hissing when she bumped her stitches, and busied herself with cleaning the dishes until Weaver was done getting dressed. He came out of the bedroom in gym shorts and a t-shirt, and carrying a blanket and a pillow. He droppe them on the sofa as he crossed the room.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, coming around the end of the island. “And the dishes.” He bumped her shoulder with his until she stepped aside and picked up the sponge she’d been using. “Go rest.”

She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Ian...”

Pausing, he looked up from the dish in his hand with raised eyebrows. “This is not a discussion, Belle. You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re going to go through a lot more in the next few days. You need sleep.”

Her shoulders sagged, knowing he was right, but still too stubborn to admit complete defeat. “Fine, but _I’m_ taking the couch.”

He set the plate in the drying rack and threw the sponge into the sink, splattering water and suds. “The hell you are.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed,” she insisted, folding her arms.

He wanted to scream at her that it was her bed too, or at least it had been once upon a time, but that seemed like it would only provoke another fight. It was strange enough to have her here again, he didn’t want to make it worse by dredging up a past she was already well aware of. Sighing, he picked up the sponge and wrung it out as he spoke.

“You don’t feel it now because of the pain meds,” he said, “but tomorrow you’ll think you were hit by a truck. It’ll be ten times worse if you spend the night on a sofa.”

Belle’s eyes narrowed and they stared at each other for a few seconds over the span of the counter, until she sighed and shook her head. “Fine. But if your back is trashed in the morning, I don’t want to hear any whining.”

Weaver gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve slept on that couch plenty of times, I’ll be fine.” Then he dried off his hands and came over to her, holding her gently by the arms. “Please. Get some rest.”

She hated how soft his voice was in these moments, and stepped back, shrugging off his touch. “Yeah, okay.”

Then she crossed the room to the bedroom door, stopping with her hand on the knob. She looked back at him, giving him a wan smile. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, his eyes wide and soft. “You’re always welcome, Belle.”

A short nod was her only reply before she slipped into the bedroom and shut the door.

* * *

It took Weaver ages to get settled on the sofa.

His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t shut off. He finished cleaning up the kitchen and then called Rogers to find out the status of the manhunt, which was that there was no status at all. The rain had turned to an outright storm, and that combined with the fact that it was nearly midnight was making a proper search slow going. All the area hospitals were on alert, as were the ones in Seattle, and for the time being the news media were on a forty-eight hour blackout where ADA French was concerned. Seattle PD had sent as many spare men as they could, but the Chief of Hyperion Heights Police, Albert Spencer, was ready to call in the FBI and hand it all off to them. Of course that had set off Captain Humbert, and Spencer had ordered him to go home. To top it all off, Belle and he were both officially removed from the case and two squad cars were now parked outside his building as a precaution.

Everything was turning into a total shit show.

He sighed again and shifted, turning onto his back and readjusting the blanket. Outside, the thunder rumbled along, and the wind slapped the rain harder against the windows. Any other time it would be a calming, welcoming white noise, but all it was doing tonight was making him ansty. He hoped Belle was having better luck getting to sleep.

A few minutes later, just as he’d given up on falling asleep anytime soon, and started playing a new game of Angry Birds on his phone, there was a crashing sound from the bedroom. He sat up quickly, dropping his phone on the floor, and tossed the blanket aside. That was immediately followed by a noise he couldn’t make out, and a scream that terrified him to his core.

The bedroom door flung open, banging against the metal stop as Weaver charged into the room.

Belle thrashed in the sheets, kicking at them haphazardly and pushing them towards the foot of the bed. “_Get off me!_”

Weaver hesitated for a moment, knowing she was in the throws of what appeared to be a violent nightmare, but unsure of how to approach her. The clock on the nightstand was on the floor, unplugged, which explained the crash he'd heard, and the lamp would be next if he didn't calm her down.

“Belle!” he called out, coming to stand at the end of the bed.

She cried out again and rolled over, slamming her fist down on the pillow. “_No no no!_”

He hurried to her side, and grabbed at her wrists when she whipped her body around again. “Belle, stop! You need to wake up!” She pushed at him roughly, and he let go, nearly taking a right hook to his jaw as he tried to back away. “_Belle!_”

As quickly as it had started, it stopped, and she blinked up at him, her eyes wide and wet. She looked like a frightened child, and something constricted in his chest. This was part of what he'd been afraid of, what he'd seen others go through too many times.

Belle stared up at Weaver, trying to make sense of what was happening. There’d been someone else there just a second ago, but now Weaver was here instead? She'd been in her apartment, in the kitchen, except this was not her apartment or her bed. Her eyes drifted down, expecting to see blood, but her skin was clean. A dream? Slowly her mind filled in the blanks as she pushed herself up to sit, and groaned.

“Shit, sorry,” she said, her hands covering her face as she sucked in a breath through her nose. Her heart was thumping as loud in her ears as the thunder outside. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay.” He sat down on the edge of the bed leaving a careful distance between them. “Are you all right?”

She dropped her hands and pressed her lips together. “I'm fine, yeah. Did I hit you?”

One shoulder shrugged. “Nah, too slow.”

Her mouth curved as did his, and she punched lightly at his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” he insisted, shifting closer. “But you didn’t answer my question. Are you sure _you’re_ okay?”

Belle nodded and pushed her hair back. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t even know what -” She stopped and looked around the room, dimly lit by the light coming from the living room. “It’s all fuzzy now.”

“Probably best that way.”

She sniffled again and looked down at her hands laying in her lap. There was still some dried blood stuck under her right thumbnail and she picked at it with the thumb on the other hand. “Yeah.”

He ducked his head, trying to get a look at her face. “Do you want some water?” Her hair sway as she shook her head. “Should I leave the door open, or turn on a light, or -?”

“No,” she said lifting her head. “No, I’m -” 

She licked her lips and took a breath as she reached for the hand he had braced on the bed between them. He let her take it, and wrapped his warm palm over her lightly chilled fingers, holding them carefully. She shivered, her eyes falling closed for a moment.

“Would you, um - would you do me a favor?”

Weaver gave her hand a gentle squeeze, much the same as she’d done for him in the hospital. “Anything.”

That single word from him made her wonder whether she had any fucking clue what she was really asking.

“Would you...stay with me?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Weaver and Belle get a start on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the hall of justice... You didn't think I was going to give up the bed sharing goodness that soon did you? ;) Okay, I am in the next chapter, but I need to balance present with past. I might try alternating chapters if that seems reasonable? IDK. I'm winging it here y'all.  
For the Writer's Month prompt #7: sports.

_12 weeks ago..._

“Sports? Seriously?” 

Weaver rolled his eyes and dropped his head back to look up at the ceiling before he turned around. He pointed at the television mounted on the wall of Belle’s office with the remote that was still in his hand.

“You said ‘no news channels’ because they’re too distracting,” he snapped. “Movies with guns and explosions seemed inappropriate, and if I have to listen to another home renovation show I’ll fucking shoot something. The city only pays for basic cable. That makes our choices the Weather Channel, that will repeat the same useless, and probably wrong, forecast every half hour, or...” 

He paused to gesture exaggeratedly at the TV as though he was displaying it on a game show. “Premier league.”

She huffed and stalked to her desk. “_Fine,_ but keep it down so I can think.”

He gave another brief gaze up to the ceiling and then set the remote back where he found it, echoing her with a quiet but annoyed, _fine._

“Court today?” he asked, noting the slim, navy pencil skirt and suit jacket she was wearing, with what she always referred to as a ‘standard issue’ white blouse.

Belle sighed audibly and dropped into her desk chair. “Yeah. Branson’s lawyer is filing everything he possibly can, so I spent all morning fielding that, and then I covered a continuance this afternoon for Mal. But starting tomorrow, my caseload is officially down to just this.” 

She swept her hand towards the stacks of boxes and the large, blank whiteboard. 

Weaver stood by the leather sofa, his hands on his hips as his eyes moved over the veritable mountain of evidence they had to go through. All they’d managed that first day was moving things around in her office and dragging the largest whiteboard they could find up from storage. That had been trickier than anticipated when they discovered it wouldn’t fit in the elevator unless they squeezed themselves into the corners and put it diagonally. Of course that took them a solid fifteen minutes of arguing to achieve.

If they couldn’t even get setup without being at each other's throats, he wasn’t sure how weeks of building a case was going to go.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked finally.

She frowned and sagged a little in her seat. She was already tired and done with today, but they needed to get started sooner rather than later. This case was the kind that could make or break a career, and there were far too many victims and victims families depending on her, a whole city in fact. It was something she kept trying not to think about, but that succeeding in keeping her up half the night.

Stretching her arms up, she bent to one side and then the other, trying to work out the knots in her spine before she answered. “The board?”

He nodded slowly and then moved to the whiteboard. There was a large pack of markers sitting on the ledge and he wasted no time in opening it and dumping them all into his palm before turning and holding them up like playing cards for her to see.

“Pick a color, any color.”

He wagged his eyebrows, and she laughed in spite of herself. “Red.”

* * *

Three hours and thirty dollars in Chinese takeout later, they had managed to get through one half of one box, and about a third of the information they had on victim number one.

“Oh come on!” Belle exclaimed, popping up off the sofa and bouncing on her bare feet. She’d ditched her heels almost immediately, and then her stockings about an hour into their work. “I cannot believe it’s going to end in dual red cards and a fucking tie. What the hell?”

Weaver watched her, bemused, and leaned back on the sofa. “I told you not to cheer for bloody Arsenal.”

She shot him a glare and then sat down, reaching for one of the takeout boxes. The chopsticks rattled around inside it, and she tipped it towards her to find it empty. “Did you eat the rest of the noodles?”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Don’t look at me, oh, Queen of the Spicy Peanut Sauce.” 

Her feeble swat at his leg only made him snicker. He relaxed against the sofa, and watched her from the side as she stacked the containers and tucked them back in the plastic bag they’d been delivered in. They’d spent so many nights like this, both at work and at home. If he closed his eyes, it could almost be four years ago, when another case introduced them and eventually brought them together, but there were far too many miles between then and now.

Weaver had lost the leather jacket minutes into their work, and rolled up his sleeves. It should have distracted her all that much, but for some reason it did. There was a weird intimacy in seeing someone be comfortable in your presence and your space. She wondered if he thought the same of her, and then pushed it aside, dumping the bag into the trash bin by her desk, and then turning to face the board. She read over what they had posted and arched her back, pressing a hand against her spine in a vain attempt to crack something. 

Overall, it was going to be a fairly standard case board, with a picture of the first victim, a woman named Molly Macreedy. She was everything people loved about cases like this; she was young, pretty, and full of hope. Even her name sounded good, with a nice little bit of alliteration that made it easy to stick in people’s minds. It was a sad but true fact about anything like this, it helped when the victim was likable. They’d taped a picture of her at her college graduation under her name, written in red, and listed out all the particulars of the general crime scene, and a brief timeline leading up to when they believed she was killed.

That was the crux of the issue.

Nick Branson had been caught red handed - quite literally as his hands were covered in blood - trying to dump the fifth victim’s body. Later, they found Henry Mills, unconscious and tied up in Nick’s apartment. It was easy from there to tie Branson to the others, but his lack of confession meant they needed to work out the details of each murder on their own. DNA was great, but it wasn’t always enough. People wanted to know the where, when, and how. They wanted the existence of the DNA explained, and, in their minds, why any of it happened in the first place.

As if it was possible to find reason in something so senseless.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Weaver said.

His voice was soft, and Belle blinked, only just realizing that he’d turned off the television. She sighed. “I’m not sure they’re even worth that.”

He ran the back of his up and down her arm, shoulder to elbow, a light soothing motion. She wanted to lean into it, let his knuckles press just a little harder and ease some of the tension she’d been carrying all day. That was something he’d always been willing to do for her, a neck rub here, a foot massage there, purely for the sake of touching her and being close to her. 

“There’s just _so much,_” she said finally. “I don’t know, you know? How to get through all of it.”

Weaver resisted the urge to put his arm around her. He knew she meant more than she was saying. It went beyond how to physically get through the boxes and folders and reports. It was how to survive the whole exercise, how to read about blood, injuries, wounds, and causes of death, and go home at the end of the day not feeling like you’d been through it yourself. It was how to live with it, and how to move on from it when it was all done, if any of them every really did in this job.

He swallowed and let his hand drop to the sofa, a hair’s breadth from Belle’s. “The same way we always do.”

Except that was a bit of a lie. Sure he’d probably finish of most days with a scotch, neat, but it would be at Roni’s instead of home, and there wouldn’t be a second glass with red wine in it for Belle, or the comfort of cool sheets and a warm body. But they would both still understand, still be able to look at each other and know from the dark circles and endless pots of coffee, the toll it was taking on the inside.

“Yeah.”

Her voice was barely above a breath, and then he felt something touch the edge of his hand. He glanced down to see her pinky brushing against his, and he turned his hand over to catch it between his thumb and index finger. She looked down suddenly, and then her eyes flicked up to his face. He tried to hold it back, but his lips twitched in amusement anyway, and she smiled.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged, letting go of her finger, somewhat reluctantly. “Don’t be. You always fidget when you’re thinking.”

“Yeah,” she said again, her head dropping for a second. Then she looked up, her stare fixing on Molly’s picture as she took a deep, steadying breath. This was the most civil they’d been to each other in a while, and also the longest amount of time they’d been in the same room. They didn’t even sign the divorce papers together, just shuttled them back and forth between lawyers.

“We need a plan,” she said.

Weaver pushed to his feet and walked over to the rest of the boxes, still neatly stacked under the window of her office, organized by which ones went with which victim.“Divide and conquer?” 

He looked back at her over his shoulder at Belle, with raised eyebrows. “I’ll do the timelines, you do the lab results?”

“And we’ll do the autopsy reports together?”

She sounded almost hopeful, as if looking at the grittiest details together might lessen their blow on the psyche. It wouldn’t, but at least they’d weather it together. 

His mouth curved crookedly. “Whatever the lady wants.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Weaver both have some issues sleeping, but for different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone wanted this bed sharing, but I'm not sure this is going the way you guys think... ;)  
For the Writer's Month prompt #8: colors.

_Present Day..._

Weaver stared up at the ceiling of the loft apartment, his eyes tracing the lines made by the old beams and ducting and pipes.

His mind had turned it into a game, trying to follow one particular line all the way from one wall to the other, until it disappeared from view. In the course of tracking an old copper pipe, he determined that it was actually possible to be in both Heaven and Hell at the same time, because that was what lying next to Belle French was when he couldn’t touch her or hold her close. Never had a foot of space felt so far away.

She’d asked him to stay, and he’d said yes. Then he slid into bed, on his usual side, and remained there while she went back to sleep. It had taken her a few minutes to get settled after her nightmare, but eventually her breathing evened out and he could hear her light, muffled snoring. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound until now.

He exhaled slowly and forced his eyes closed. It was hard to relax enough to fall asleep, and his body nearly twitched with the need to move, to roll onto his side and put his arm around her, pulling her against his chest. He didn’t want to fall asleep, out of fear that he might actually do it, gravitating towards her even in sleep. That would probably lead to either another terrified outburst, or her elbowing him in the nose. She liked to lead with her elbow when she was startled, and no doubt waking up to someone touching her after what she’d been through in the last few hours would cause quite a reaction.

Weaver had just resigned himself to a sleepless night, when Belle stirred.

He kept himself still while she shifted, pulling her legs up until she was almost curled around herself. His throat felt tight and his hand clenched in a fist over his stomach to keep from reaching for her. It would be too easy to slip into old patterns, and to repeat recent mistakes. He didn’t want her to have more regrets, not where he was concerned, though he certainly had enough about her.

Belle opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the nightstand, one of the few things of hers that he’d left in place, and sighed. It was after midnight and sleep seemed a distant, unfathomable concept. Her body desperately wanted to fall asleep, but as soon as she closed her eyes the memory came back. She could feel the way the killer loomed over her, the grip of his arm around her, and the terror that made every hair stand on end.

Thunder rumbled outside, and she shivered, the words - the threat - repeated themselves as the old windows high up on the walls rattled in their panes. The fear that coursed through her body in that moment made the room spin, until her eyes finally landed on the block on the counter and the gleaming stainless steel. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, not really, she’d never wanted to hurt anyone that way, even those that most would agree didn’t deserve to live. But terror was a hell of a motivator.

Her fingers flexed over the sheets, closing and opening, recalling the sensation of slick, warm blood dripping through her fingers, tinting her vision as it dribbled down the side of her face. The cold handle of the knife grounded her as she plunged it through clothing and skin and muscle. There was a sickening snap and squish, followed by a pain and rage filled scream. Her left ear was still ringing from it. She pressed her lips together as a hot tears trailed over her cheek, and she turned her face into the pillow. 

There was a soft, sniffling noise, and Weaver turned his head. Belle had moved again, this time hiding her face in the pillow with the blanket pulled up until it was nearly covering her head. He held still, barely breathing until the sound came again, hitting him like a knife to the chest, and he rolled onto his side.

“Belle?” he said softly, stretching his hand into the space between them without touching her.

She sniffed, louder this time, and let the blanket slip down as she rolled onto her back, turning her head to look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shook his head. “Wasn’t asleep.”

“Me neither.” Her smile was flat and she sighed, swiping a hand over her face to brush away the drips left by her tears.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, even though they were the only ones in the apartment. It felt comfortable and warm, in spite of the awkward chasm that had formed between them. There were still things they understood about each other, intrinsically it seemed. No one had ever known her so well, not even her late mother. There was an intimacy that came with that, with being able to feel the other person there just by the way the room felt when they were in it, that was utterly terrifying. She wanted him - no, _needed_ him - and the thought made her swallow hard. 

“I keep seeing it,” she said, rolling onto her side to face him. “The blood, the knife, his - his hands.”

Weaver wasn’t sure he’d ever wished harm on another human being as much as he did right now, and the severity of it, the rage that made his neck and face heat. It was too dark to see how red her eyes were, how pale her face was, or the salty trails left on her cheeks from her tears. He knew they were there all the same. 

He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “And reliving it?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers curled into the sheets, pressing against the mattress. “What do you need?”

Belle breathed, in and out, and put her hand over his. She knew she was asking too much of him, but he was all she had right now. Her throat was tight and dry, and her tongue felt like too thick in her mouth. 

She swallowed hard and whispered, “Would you hold me?”

His eyes closed tight as she turned over again, facing the other direction. He hadn’t said yes, but there was no other possible answer. As soon as he slipped his arm around her middle, her hand came up to lay over his, and he shifted closer, pressing her back to his front. She moved her legs and aligned them to his, their knees fitting around each other like two pieces of the same puzzle. Everything felt warmer, and as they exhaled together, he could feel his body finally relax, along with hers, loose and comfortable as they drifted off together.

It was perfect, he thought, and it was agony.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle wakes up to a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, note the rating change. ;) I'm not even sorry. For the Writer's Month prompt #12: dreams.

Belle stirred slowly, stretching her limbs and smiling as she felt Weaver’s solid, warm presence behind her.

She shifted and felt something else warm and solid, pressing into the curve of her backside, and bit her lip. He was rock hard and instantly there was a rush of pleasure in her core that made her squeeze her thighs together. Her small movements drew his attention, and he chuckled lightly in her ear.

“Good morning.”

His voice was low and rough, his accent heavy as it always was when he was aroused, and she moaned shamelessly, pushing her ass into his erection. She knew how good his cock felt when it was deep inside her and she wanted it right now, wanted him to help her forget everything about yesterday. 

He pushed back and nipped at her neck, and she let out an amused little sound. “Very good.”

The hand that had been around her middle all night, inched upward, brushing the underside of her breasts through the soft cotton t-shirt, and then up to rub teasingly over her nipple. She tried to press forward into his hand and back against his hard cock at the same time, which made him laughed again and kiss his way up the side of her neck.

“Someone’s eager,” he whispered. Then he pushed up on his elbow without breaking the taunting attention he was paying her breast. “Feeling better?”

Belle nodded and twisted her neck, reaching up to pull him down for a heated kiss. When it broke, her lips felt swollen and hot, and his fingers closed sharply over her nipple, giving it a rough tug through the shirt. She cried out and pressed her face into the pillow, wiggling against him to urge him on. She didn’t want to wait, she wanted his hard length inside her, pressing deep and making her scream until she forgot everything but the way he made her feel, whole and loved and beautiful.

Weaver hummed appreciatively and settled behind her again. “You want it right now don’t you?” 

His hand moved down away from her chest to pull her leg up over his, spreading her open and making it so he could press the tip of his cock, still covered by his boxers, against her dripping center.

“You want my cock?” He thrust forward, soaking the front of his underwear with her juices, and she groaned. “My fingers?” His hand slipped between her legs, two fingers parting her slit, holding her open but not touching where she wanted him too. “My mouth?”

“_Fuck,_” she gasped. All of them, any of them, anything he would give her. She needed to come. Her body was so keyed up from the stress of the previous day that she felt like she could barely think straight.

He kissed the side of her face, her jaw, and down to the top of her shoulder where the collar of the shirt was stretched out. His fingers slipped over her heated flesh with a slick, wet sound, gliding along either side of her clit and all the way down to her entrance. Her pussy twitched, needy and hot, trying to draw him inside and give her want she needed, but he ignored it and drew his fingers back up.

Up and down they moved, her hips rocking in time with the motion of his hand as he stroked her. Her arousal was everywhere, coating his hand and sticking to the inside of her thighs. She wanted to close her legs and trap his hand there, give herself just a little more pressure and friction, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her open, sometimes circling a finger directly over her hard, swollen nub, sometimes catching it between his fingers and pinching lightly. But none of it was enough to send her over the edge.

Belle writhed against the bed, wrinkling the sheets as she tried to get more from his hand and rub her arse against his cock. She hoped he’d give in, but she knew he could be a very patient man when he wanted to be, and it seemed he was in quite a mood this morning. Stress affected him differently than her, made him want to seize control. In this case it was control of her body, and she was more than willing to give herself over to him. She trusted him with her life, with her heart even, despite everything that had happened between them, all the bullshit from their jobs, the city, and their own stubbornness.

Finally he pushed his fingers inside her and pressed his palm against her clit. She cried out and strained against him, trying to force him deeper, but instead he curled them, rubbing and playing with a spot that had her twitching in his arms.

“Mmm, there it is,” he said in her ear. She could hear the devilish smile in his voice and moaned. “So wet, so needy, my Belle. Do you need to come, love? Do you want to scream for me?”

“Y-yes,” she managed, hissing out the S sound. “Ian - _fuck_ \- please!”

Weaver chuckled again and pulled his hand away. She turned her face into the pillow and whined pathetically, trying to control her breathing as the pulsing in her cunt drove her nearly insane.

“Look at me.” 

She let out a shaky breath and turned, rolling onto her back to see him kneeling on the bed. He brought his hand to his mouth and sucked them clean, groaning at the taste of her.

“Please..." she said again, her hips lifting of their own accord.

He shook his head. “Not yet. Not until I’m inside you.” 

His hand dropped to his cock, pressing against the front of his boxers and stroking himself through the material. She licked her lips as she watched him, and his grin widened. Then he bent and stretched out on the bed, settling himself between her legs. She whimpered and dug her nails into the sheets at the first sensation of his warm breath on her pussy. He was going to make her wait. He was going to do everything to her until she couldn’t bear it any longer, and then she’d come on the first thrust, the first thick press of him inside her.

He flicked his tongue against her clit, and she jumped, hips lifting clear off the mattress, and he smirked. His head bent, his strong hands holding her legs open, and then - 

* * *

Belle’s eyes opened wide, her mouth letting out a sharp gasp. She sat up quickly, and looked around, confused to find herself in her office. Pushing herself up on the sofa, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly as her dream faded. Between her legs she was hot and achy, throbbing with need just like in her dream, and she groaned, dropping her face to her hands.

Just then the door to her office opened, and she startled, jumping up off the sofa.

Weaver came in with a file folder tucked under one arm, and the other wrapped around a large white sack.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

Belle shook her head and smoothed her hands down her blouse. “Yeah, just, uh, just dozed off for a few minutes.” She looked around, realizing she had no actual idea how long she’d been asleep. “What time is it?”

“After six.” He set the sack down on the table at the far end of her office, which was currently littered with papers and empty coffee cups. “I finished up my list, and swung by Mario’s,” he continued, pushing the mess to one end to make space for their food.

Then he turned and smiled at her. “Lasagna? Garlic bread?” Her eyes narrowed and her lips started to curve. “Alfredo dipping sauce...”

She let out a contented sound and immediately crossed to the table, smiling. “That sounds amazing.”

He nodded and pulled out one of the chairs to sit down, while she did the same just to his left. There was a bit of sauce on the side of one of the containers, right where he picked it up. He set it down on a napkin, and lifted his hand, frowning at his finger before he sucked it into his mouth. Mario’s sauce was fairly legendary in Hyperion Heights, and to let any of it go to waste was tantamount to a deadly sin.

Belle’s eyes darkened as she watched his lips close around his fingertip, and pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the growing ache. He must have noticed because he gave her a strange look and she immediately averted her eyes, focusing on folding open the wrapped garlic bread. 

_Fuck._

Four days of working with Ian, and already she was having naughty dreams about him, and getting distracted by the innocuous licking of marinara sauce. What would she be like in a month? In three? One thing was certain, she was not fucking her ex-husband. 

That was a recipe for disaster, both for them and the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jean Ralphio voice* I'm the woooooooorst! So obviously this was a flashback, taking place a few days after the one in Chapter 4.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, bad choices are made, and airs are cleared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say trust me, I know what I'm doing, but that would be a lie. ;) I'm absolutely ready for the onslaught of whatever this causes. (No, really, I do know what I'm doing and where this is going...) For the Writer's Month prompt #13: feelings.
> 
> Please please PLEASE mind the tags on this fic. I've added a couple new ones for this chapter, and I will be adding more. I'm going to try to keep the violence and things more implied and not graphic, but if anyone thinks I need to add a warning, please let me know.

_Present Day..._

Belle woke up slowly.

Her body had sunk into the plush mattress, warm and heavy, pulled there with the help of the comfortable weight behind her. She smiled and stretched her legs, which pushed her hips and ass backwards. A light gasp slipped out when she felt something very obvious and very hard pressed against her. As much as she wanted to resist, wanted to be the better person and put the mistakes that had happened between them behind her, her body responded all too easily. She shifted again, rolling her arse back and biting her lip to hold back the moan in her throat. 

Yesterday had been total shit - no, worse than total shit, whatever that was. The kind of shit that ended with being assaulted by a psychopath. Sleeping with someone, with Ian, had helped. She hadn’t woken up once after he came to bed with her, holding her all night, but she knew that in the daylight it would all come back. By noon she’d be jumping at every little noise. There was also all the paperwork to deal with. She’d promised Rogers and Graham she’d come to the station today, to give her official statement and talk about where they all went from here.

But for a little while, she wanted to forget.

Behind her, Weaver stirred, his arm around her midsection tensing and pulling her back against him. She smiled and ran her nails gently down his forearm, drawing a low, contented sound out of him. His brain wasn’t quite caught up to what was happening, and all he could focus on was the soft warmth at his front, and the gentle rubbing of her arse against his very erect cock.

He pulled back with a groan, and she twisted to look over her shoulder at him. “Good morning.”

He rubbed his eyes and frowned as she wiggled back and forth, and his hand dropped to her hip to stop her. “What - what are you doing?” 

She did it again, and he rolled away, trying very hard not to give and do something she’d regret again, but she followed him, turning over until she was laying half on top of him. Her leg came up over his, her hand resting on his chest.

She grinned down at him. “I thought you could help me forget my bad day.”

Weaver blinked hard, his body still not quite free of the fog of sleep. “Belle, I -”

His words were cut off by her claiming his mouth, pushing her tongue against his lips. He opened for her immediately, groaning as she surged inside, kissing him hard and fast. She pushed up on one hand, the other skimming down his body to the band of his boxers, and then over it to press the heel of her palm against the ridge of his cock. His hips lifted automatically, one hand pushing her hair back as they kissed, and the other sliding down her back to the curve of her backside.

He wanted nothing more than to give in and do as she asked, make all of it go away, everything that happened to her, to them, but that was a fantasy. If he rolled them over, pushed her down to the bed, and let himself sink deep inside her willing body, there would still be a mess to deal with when it was over. He loved her and he wanted her desperately. He wanted to taste her again, to lose himself in the slick heat and sharp gasps, to hear her cry out in his ear while her pussy spasmed around his cock. But not like this, not when it was simply a way for Belle to distract herself for a short time and push him away again later.

They’d both done that enough.

Belle broke the kiss, dragging her teeth over his bottom lip, and then pushed up on her hands. The look she was giving him was practically feral, and he could feel how aroused she was, how easily she’d let him do anything he wanted, and how prettily she’d beg for more. It took almost everything he had to hold her and himself back from taking things any further.

“Belle, stop,” he managed between lungfuls of air.

She frowned and leaned in to kiss him again, but he caught her with a hand in her hair and on her shoulder.

“_Stop,_” he repeated, and she pulled away.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Weaver pushed himself up to sit and shook his head. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Excuse me?” She let out a short scoffing laugh and tugged her shirt down. “Was I not obvious enough? Would you like to feel how wet and horny I am right now?”

He put that thought to the side and wiped a hand over his mouth, as if he could take the feeling of her kiss away with it. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she asked, climbing off the bed. “Don’t want to fuck me?” Her arms folded over her chest, and she gave him a pointed look as his head dropped. “Because I don’t believe that for a second.”

“No, Belle, it’s -”

“It’s what, Ian?” Her voice rose in pitch along with her anger. She rubbed her arm where the killer had held onto her, hating that she could still feel him there, and that she couldn’t replace it with anything else in her mind.

“It’s a mistake,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “And I know you don’t want to make another one of those.”

Belle’s lips quivered and her vision blurred momentarily as tears formed at the edges of her eyes. She sucked in a breath through her nose, her head nodding slowly. “Oh, right. Like I didn’t want to four days ago? Like when you fucked me against the wall of my office?”

Weaver’s eyes went wide. “Are you saying you didn’t want me to do that? Because I pretty clearly remember _someone_ begging me to do it harder.”

“Yes!” Then she shook her head and took a breath to steady herself. Everything was wrong and most of it was her fault. “No, _no,_ I _did,_ I definitely did, but - fuck...” 

“Belle,” he sighed, holding out a hand to her.

Her smile was flat, her fingers curling into fists as she unfolded her arms. The warm, happy feeling she had awakened with fading into cool annoyance. “No, don’t. _Fuck you,_ it’s too late now.”

She spun on her heel and all but stomped out of the bedroom, and Weaver tossed back the sheets. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, waiting for his erection to fully subside. The last thing he needed was to go into the living room to have an argument with his ex-wife with his cock bobbing like an idiot in front of him, like a beacon flashing that he really was that pathetic and weak where she was concerned because he’d gladly let her lead him around by it. Now he was wishing he'd just let her have what she wanted. They'd both have been happier that way; at least for twenty minutes or so.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his hands over his face before he stood up.

Belle went to the kitchen and started to make coffee, though mostly she was just opening and slamming cabinet doors as she got out the grounds and the box of filters. All of it was in the same place, right where she’d put it when she’d moved in, of _fucking_ course. The same, but not, just like her, just like them.

She blinked and felt hot trails tumble down both of her cheeks, and she stopped to angrily swipe at them before opening the bag of coffee and taking out the little scoop inside. It smelled like heaven, and she stood there for a minute, breathing in the aroma of dark roast Colombian, and trying to get herself under control when a hand came to rest on the small of her back.

She whirled around, swinging her arm up, and forcing Weaver to back away hastily. “Don’t.”

He held up his hands and took another step back. “Fine, but would you tell me what the fuck all that was about?”

Dropping the scoop on the counter, she turned and leaned against the edge, shooting Weaver a glare. “Nothing.”

He scoffed. “Nothing? Okay, right.”

“What?” she asked, shrugging one shoulder. “What do you want me to say?”

Weaver shook his head. “I don’t know, how about the fucking truth for once?”

“Yeah, like you’d know what that was.” She turned back to the coffee, and fumbled the bag, knocking it over and spilling grounds over the light granite, and sending a dusting to the floor. “Shit.”

“Here, let me.” He moved towards her, reaching to take the bag, but she batted him away.

“Just leave it,” she snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “Belle, you need to deal with this -”

“_I am,_” she said, turning to him again. “That was me trying to deal with it. Badly, apparently.”

“Apparently?” His eyebrows lifted.

She closed her eyes for a moment as her fingers curled against her leg. “Right because you’re the only one allowed to do that, I forgot. It’s only okay if the great Jonathan Ian Weaver does the stupid, self-destructive thing.”

He sighed. “That’s not what I’m -”

Belle was having none of it, and continued on, interrupting him. “I’m not allowed to want to fuck my husband to forget about the fact that I almost _died._ Or to use the same shit you always do so you don’t have to think about what a shitshow the world really is.”

She took a step closer, ignoring the grimy feeling of the coffee sticking to her bare feet. “Which coping mechanism am I allowed to use, Ian? The one where you shove a guy’s head in a barrel full of water and nearly _kill_ him?!”

“He was working for a human trafficker, and I put them _both_ in prison!” he screamed, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth as he leaned towards her. “I _solved_ that case!”

“And I lost our baby!”

She tipped her chin up, her eyes wide and shining, until he took a staggered step back, pressing his lips together. It took a second for her brain to register what she’d said, and when it finally did, the room spun around her and she dropped to the floor.

Her knees made a sickening thud on the hardwood, and Weaver rushed to her. He got down next to her and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest even as she fought to push him away. After a few feeble shoves, her arms gave, and she let out a sob that was half a scream and whole agony. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck as her fingers pulled at his t-shirt, digging her nails into the fabric and the skin beneath it, making him hiss in pain.

She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed against his shoulder, her mouth open so wide that her teeth caught and scraped against his throat. Her body ached and shook as she cried, hot, heavy tears for herself, for him, for the eleven weeks they kept a beautiful secret all to themselves. He was on the verge as well, she could hear it in his voice as he shushed her, petted her hair, and told her it was okay. But it wasn’t. None of it was okay, not then and not now.

After a few minutes, Belle’s energy was sapped and all she could manage was a few small hiccups and sniffles. Weaver shifted and was able to get his aching legs out from under him to sit back against the cabinets and pull her across his lap, her face resting against the center of his chest and his chin on the top of her head.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said, his throat dry and tight.

She sniffed loudly and rubbed at her nose. “I know.”

The words were muffled against his shirt, but he heard her, and tilted his head to press a kiss to her forehead. She'd called him her husband, not her ex, not her co-worker. _Husband._ He wanted that to mean something so badly, but it could have just as likely been a slip. He swallowed hard, fighting to hold back what he really wanted to say, but all it took was another pitiful sound from her to pull it right out of him.

“I love you.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, her hair a mess and her face red, and tear streaked. One corner of her mouth curved briefly. “I know.”

He exhaled heavily, letting out every bit of air in his lungs as he sagged against the island, and hugged her tightly. She brought one arm up over his, and squeezed back, her eyes falling closed as she breathed. They’d lost so much, and then they’d lost each other. Maybe now, amidst the blood and anguish and chaos, they’d found something too.

Weaver opened his mouth to say they should probably get off the kitchen floor, but the shrill sound of his phone ringing stopped him. Belle jerked against him, startling for a moment at the noise, but then she pushed herself up, grabbing a hold of the edge of the counter to stand. He managed to get himself upright, rather gracelessly, and hurried towards the bedroom.

Belle took a slow, deep breath, running a hand through her hair before she followed after him, her emotions feeling a bit too raw. He met her in the doorway of the bedroom, his face unreadable and the phone pressed to his right ear. The little crease in his brow deepened, and crossed her arms, biting her lip as she waited while he nodded, said a quick thank you to whoever he was listening to, and lowered the phone.

“That was Rogers,” he said, staring down at the phone screen for a second before he met her eyes. “They found him; they found Jack.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first time, then and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two-fer first time fic and a two-fer on the flashbacks! The first part is when they first met, the second is their first "mistake" during the case. For the Writer's Month prompt #15: first time.

_Seven years ago..._

“Please state your full name and position, for the record.”

Weaver’s eyes flicked up and down, assessing the Assistant District Attorney. He’d never seen her before, but he’d heard the name; Belle French. She’d cut her teeth in vice, which wasn’t easy on anyone, and got noticed after a raid on a massage parlor turned up links to organized crime. Taking down Baron Samedi had been no easy task, though several had tried before her. Samedi’s lawyer had made a fatal mistake in underestimating ADA French, assuming her to be just a pretty face and a great pair of legs, and paid for it by failing to have key evidence, obtained under possibly dubious circumstances, excluded.

Of course Weaver knew nothing about those circumstances, naturally, thought he did still owe a dock worker a get out of jail free card.

“Jonathan Ian Weaver,” he began, leaning back in his chair. “Detective, Hyperion Heights Police Department, Major Crimes Division.”

ADA French gave him a small smile that had just a tinge of animosity, as if she’d already sized him up and found him lacking. She’d probably read his file. His lips twitched as she came out from behind the table in her light gray suit and skirt. Her heels had to be at least four inches, and she still looked like the most petite person in the room. Their eyes met as she started to ask her first question, and he could tell he was in for it.

Over two hours later, Weaver walked out of the courtroom feeling like he’d just gone ten rounds. The defense attorney had been a first class prick, but ADA French was a league all her own. She was sharp, organized, and clearly taking no shit from anyone, yet her bright blue eyes and pleasing smile easily won over the jury and the judge. And him if he was being honest, but there was no way he was letting her know that.

He moved off to the side of the hallway and rolled his shoulders, stiff from the relentlessly hard, awkward chair in the witness stand. The courtroom doors swung open again and a swarm of people came rushing out, the prosecution team lead by ADA French and flanked by press from gallery. She had a satisfied smile on her face, and was happily giving the nearest reporter the perfect six o’clock news sound bite. Trailing at the end was the defense attorney, and judging by the scowl on the bastard’s face, he’d lost the motion and the trial was proceeding as planned.

The throng made its way to the elevators, where the groups slowly split off, reporters heading out to the front steps to check in with their stations, and the defense attorneys down to the cells to meet with their clients. Belle stepped on to the elevator, alone, and turned, flipping her hair back with a quick shake of her head. She pressed the button for the fourth floor, and Weaver just managed to get his hand in between the doors before they closed.

“Detective,” she said, flatly as he stepped in beside her.

“I’m guessing Spencer didn’t get my testimony excluded.” He glanced at her sideways as the old elevator creaked and then started moving.

She shot him a look and tugged on the edge of her suit jacket with the hand not holding her court folders. “No thanks to you.”

Weaver pressed a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “I’m not sure what you mean, Counselor. I’m entirely by the book.”

Belle crossed in front of him and pulled the emergency stop. Immediately the alarm started sounding in the shaft, an older, buzzing noise that was muffled inside the car, and then faced him.

“Look,” she said, her voice dropping as she stabbed a finger towards his face, “I’m tired of dealing with cops like you, always thinking you can bend the rules, make a few illegal searches, and trample on everyone’s civil rights in pursuit of who you _want_ to be guilty.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes darting between the perfectly manicured nail hovering just at the end of his nose and her sparkling blue eyes. She was obviously pretty, anyone with eyes could see that, and she was quite impressive when she was controlling a courtroom, but in this aging elevator with ill fluorescent lighting, about to give him the dressing down of his life, she was absolutely stunning. 

He swallowed hard.

“But it’s not about that, it’s about the evidence and justice,” she continued. “I play shit straight, and if you don’t like that, I’ll have a few words with Captain Humbert. I’m sure you’d be more than happy to spend whatever career you have left in Traffic, filling out parking tickets and setting speed traps on I-5, after I’m done digging through every case you’ve ever _breathed_ on for any _hint_ of police misconduct. So you can take whatever version of 'the book' you have, and shove it up your ass.”

After a long moment, she lowered her hand and then reached over to smack the stop button, pushing it back in and sending the lift back into motion. The buzzing of the alarm ceased, but not the buzzing in Weaver’s head. He blinked and followed her movements as she stepped back into place beside him as if the bollocking she’d just given him never happened.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and Belle stepped out onto the faded carpet. “Am I clear, Detective?”

“Crystal.” Weaver licked at his bottom lip, the corners of his mouth beginning to curve. “Do you want to get a drink?”

Belle blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward, catching the elevator doors as they started to close, and stood between them to keep them open. “A drink. Roni’s? Some of us go there after shift, around seven.”

She scowled at him and put her free hand on her hip. “Are you - asking me out?”

“No,” he said, smirking. “I’m asking you to show up at the same shite pub as a bunch of coppers, and maybe one of us will buy you a pint.”

Her expression shifted, her eyes flicking down and then slowly trailing back up the length of him. His hand flexed at his side. The doors started to close and he moved to step back, assuming his hasty, badly delivered invitation was rejected, but she moved quickly and caught the door with her hand. She was almost pressed right against him, just at the edge of the elevator.

“I prefer scotch,” she said, eyebrows lifting slightly.

Then she stepped back, holding his gaze as the doors slid closed.

* * *

_Four weeks ago..._

Weaver leaned back on the leather sofa, his breathing ragged.

He watched, wide eyed and open mouthed, as Belle pulled up the skirt of her green dress and followed him, climbing onto the sofa and straddling his lap. She stopped with her hands on his shoulders, hesitating for a long moment, before she kissed him. Her tongue swept over his lips, and he opened for her, holding her face in his hands, his fingers curling into her hair as they tasted each other.

He’d been thinking about the day he met Belle off and on while he drove all over Hyperion Heights, working down the list of witnesses she’d given him. It was exactly seven years ago to the day. He often wondered why she’d accepted his invitation and come to Roni’s that night, and why she kept doing so off and on for weeks until he asked her to dinner. Currently, however, he was completely baffled why as to why she was in his lap, kissing him senseless and rolling her hips against his.

They’d been dancing just a minute ago, swaying in the middle of the room. Then the song ended, she’d looked up at him with a shine in her eyes he hadn’t seen in years, and the next thing he knew her lips were on his and he was stumbling backwards to the sofa. 

He’d come back with some additional files from the archives on Branson’s run in with the law when he was sixteen, and on the way he’d stopped for fresh coffee drinks. The case had been slow going, but it was going, and they had settled into a comfortable working relationship. They split duties and spent only as much time together as was necessary, but it was all very civil and even friendly at times. Their shared history couldn't be forgotten, but it was put aside in the name of putting a serial killer behind bars.

Belle was standing at the whiteboard, swaying back and forth in her bare feet, as music played from her phone where it was propped up on the table. It was a song that he’d heard on the radio a few times, enough that he recognized it but didn’t know the name of the band. He started to smile, and, after quietly setting their drinks and the file on the table, came up behind her.

His hands at her waist made her jump and squeal as she spun around, but a second later she was giving him a half-hearted scowl and swatting at his chest. He caught her hand and lifted it over her head, spinning her around and then pulling her close. There was a long moment where they just stood like that, their bodies no more than a few inches apart, and then her arm came up and they fell into step with each other, swaying and turning as the music played.

Now they were here, on the sofa in her office, the situation rapidly escalating to something Weaver had desperately wanted from the first day they started working on this case.

“Belle,” he managed between panting breaths as she broke the kiss.

She rested her forehead against his, sending hot little puffs of air from over his lips. “Shut up.” 

He gave her a questioning look, but didn't reply. His lips moved slowly to hers, and he kissed her gently, almost languidly this time. One hand was still on her cheek, the other making its way down and under her skirt to cup her backside. He squeezed her arse and sucked her bottom lip between his, pulling a light, gasping noise from her. Slowly, his hand moved down her thigh, and she sighed, grazing her nails over his scalp and down to the back of his neck as they traded soft, wet kisses. 

When his hand had finally reached its destination, he kissed her hard, pushing his tongue in her mouth as he touched her through her panties. She was hot and wet, her arousal seeping through the silky fabric and onto his fingertips as he rubbed. Her hips began to shift back and forth as her nails dug into his shoulders, her lips spilling gasps into his mouth.

“Ian,” she rasped, turning her face away and breaking the kiss.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, catching the elastic edge of her underwear and pulling it away from her aching core. She shivered, and he nipped gently at her red, swollen lips. “Tell me...”

Belle looked at him with hooded eyes and spread her legs ever so slightly, telling him all he needed to know as she tried to push herself closer. There was a shine in her eyes, unguarded desire and something he hadn't seen in a long time. He slipped his fingers into her wet folds as her breathing became more labored, her chest heaving. Her dress covered her up to her collarbone with no buttons or zippers to allow him access to her breasts, and he wished there was more time to lay her down and worship her the way he longed to. Whatever had made her kiss him and push him down on the couch, whatever was allowing him this moment with her after so long, felt fleeting and almost ethereal. He had to force himself to go slow, to make it last as long as possible for both of them.

When his thumb found her clit, she cried out and then buried her face in his neck to muffle her moaning. Two of his fingers slid inside her, curling until he felt the gentle pressure of her teeth through his shirt as she bucked against him. Her elegant hands, usually so gentle, clawed at him, twinning in his hair and scraping the back of his head. Latching her lips to the side of his neck, one busy hand traveled downwards to grip his belt, starting to work on the buckle. 

Weaver tried to focus, but his mind was spinning, bouncing between her soft hands that kept brushing over his erection as she struggled with his zipper, and her dripping center as she ground against his palm.

"More," she breathed, and he pushed another digit past the tight muscles, groaning as his brain imagined what each clench of her pussy would feel like around his aching cock. 

Her back arched, and he looked up at her, meeting her eyes, dark and wide with arousal and expectation. What little control he had maintained to that point was in grave danger of snapping. She was so hot and wet, that he knew neither of them could wait much longer. She increased her efforts, riding his hand in sharp thrusts as he moved one hand down to his jeans to help her. Their joint effort finally paid off as his belt, buttons, and zipper were undone, and her warm hand worked its way inside to free his cock. He lifted his hips, gasping in relief as he sprung free. She stroked him hard, and he almost came undone, her hands applying just the right amount of pressure.

He groaned as she looked down pointedly and licked her lips, wishing that they had more time for all the things he wanted to do to her. He pulled her in for another kiss as he pressed his fingers deep, causing her to lift up on her knees. Her cunt pulse around his fingers, and he knew she was so close to coming undone. 

Weaver pulled his hand away, savoring the desperate whimper she let out as the pleasure that had been building was abruptly cut off. He guided her hips forward and pulled her panties to the side, holding them out of the way as she took his cock in hand. In one smooth thrust he was buried to the hilt. She grunted at the sudden intrusion, her mouth hanging open in a panting gasp as she leaned her forehead against his. She felt incredible. His memories of their relationship, of her, and all the times they had been together, paled in comparison to the real thing. It was just so right to be inside her, to feel her so intimately and know exactly what she wanted and needed, exactly how to make her lose control.

Belle started to move, gently at first, but rapidly building up. Keeping his hands on her hips for support he felt her leg muscles tremble, but she seemed intent on keeping the harsh rhythm. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was hanging open as she rode him, gasping sharply as her pussy clamped him tight enough to be almost painful. He wasn’t going to last long like this, but, feeling the fluttering of her cunt, he didn't think she would either. He found her clit again, and set his thumb against it as she started to pant.

"Yes!” she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “_Fuck - Ian - please!" _

She ground out the words as she fucked him, and he felt his climax build, the telltale tingling in his abdomen increasing. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she pushed her hips down harder and harder, her movements slowing and becoming more punishing, driving him further inside her. His balls contracted, and, desperate to feel her coming with him, he pinched her sensitive bud. She bucked violently, her pussy tensing around his cock like a vice, both of them clinging to each other as they fell over the edge.

After a long moment, Belle sat back, her breathing still heavy. He reached up and pushed her hair back, his mouth curving in a satisfied smile. She licked her lips and swallowed, bracing on his chest to push herself up. His cock slipped out of her, and she staggered back from the sofa, her dress falling down to cover her soaked panties.

Weaver frowned and tucked his cock back in his underwear, waiting for whatever shoe was about to drop, but she ran a hand through her messy hair and turned away.

“Belle?” He buttoned his jeans and pulled up the zip before standing to redo his belt. Then he took a step towards her, reaching for her shoulder. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

She shrugged him off with a raised hand. “Don’t…” Then she turned back to him, pressing her lips together. “I’m - I’m gonna -” She pointed to the office door and then walked to it on shaky legs.

He swallowed, and she met his eyes, her mouth opening and closing as if she didn’t quite know what to say.

“_Belle..._”

She shook her head, and then stepped into the hallway. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, before he snatched his jacket up and slipped it on. He didn’t want to wait around with her scent clinging to him, her juices staining his jeans, and the sound of her pleasure in his ears while she explained that fucking him into her sofa was a mistake. When she came back from the restroom, he was already in the elevator, headed down and out of the building.

Seven years ago there had been Roni’s and drinks, laughter and lingering looks across the pool table. Now there was only the quiet loneliness of their once shared apartment, and the lingering regret of all the things he had and hadn’t done.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Belle, Weaver, and Rogers make a necessary trip to her apartment turned crime scene, with less than stellar results, and later, Weaver and Belle make a strange and chilling discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter really got away from me. It was supposed to be one of the shorter ones and now it's...not. Sorry. The plot is thickening a bit, before some reveals happen. Fair warning, the next chapter might be a late posting because it's back to school week! For the Writer's Month prompt #18: poetry.
> 
> Additional semi spoilery note at the end for those who are confused.

_Present day..._

After the call from Detective Rogers, Belle was restless.

She paced the kitchen and living room, fiddling with this and that, and washing out the coffee pot. Her anxiety was translating into a sustained nervous energy that had no outlet, and her mind kept trying to come up with things to do, something to focus on so she didn’t drive herself crazy with what-ifs. 

Jack was in custody. That was good news, but what came next was uncertain. He would be booked and then interviewed, but what he might say was anyone’s guess. She very much doubted that he would confess, though he might say enough to incriminate himself on some level. It was also unlikely that he would say anything against Nick. Their relationship might be fraught with all sorts of issues, but they had come this far together and there was clearly a strong, if also deeply abusive and strange, bond between them.

Weaver for his part, was strangely quiet. He’d ended the call, told her they’d found Jack, and then let her putter about the apartment while he checked in with Captain Humbert, and followed up on a few messages. She didn’t know what she’d expected from him, but it was definitely more fire and brimstone than cool and calm. The latter was not his usual MO, and that further unnerved her.

Frustrated, Belle dropped down onto the sofa next to him. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

He set his phone down on the coffee table and turned in his seat to face her. “What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging and waving her hands. “Call the station and find out what’s going on? Get - pissed off and - and storm in there to interrogate Jack yourself? Just - _something!_”

“Right, yes, so you can give me hell about it later for breaking the rules?” She huffed, and he gave her a half smile. “You’re going out of your mind, aren’t you?”

She sighed and sagged against the back of the couch. “_Yes._ I don’t like sitting and doing _nothing._” Her head rolled to the side to look at him. “How are you so calm?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not, not really, but there’s nothing I can do. And if I do what I want to do, which is what _you_ apparently want me to do, for the first time ever, it will fuck things up even more than they already are.” He exhaled and shook his head before running a hand over his face. “Is there anything you need to do? We could go out somewhere. Coffee? Or maybe stop by that diner on 9th with the big Belgian waffles you like?”

Belle smiled and shifted, turning so she was facing him, and put her hand up on the back of the sofa where his arm rested. She reached out and touched his forearm, laying her hand over it and running her thumb back and forth over his skin. The simple act calmed her a bit, and she shook her head.

“I don’t think I could eat anything right now.”

He lifted his arm and turned his wrist, catching her hand in his to bring it to his lips. “You need to eat, sweetheart.”

“Yeah...” she said softly.

Weaver sat up and then pushed to his feet. “How about I go pick up some of your things from your place, then we can go to the store, and you can wander around until you see something you feel like eating?”

Her eyes closed for a moment. In the course of everything that had happened between last night and this morning, she’d forgotten that all she had to wear were the loaner shorts and t-shirt Ian had given her last night, or her blood stained clothes that were probably beyond saving. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was standing in front of her, holding out a hand for her to take, and she nodded, finally.

“I’m going with you.”

He blinked and took her hand, pulling her up off the sofa. “Belle, let me go for you. You don’t want -”

“I’m going,” she said emphatically, continuing to hold his hand between them. “I need to.”

Weaver swallowed and nodded. “I’ll call Rogers.”

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Belle closed her eyes and nodded.

Rogers shared a look with Weaver, and then pushed open the door before stepping back. Belle blew out a breath and then entered her apartment, her hand twisting the strap of her purse nervously. Her eyes scanned the space, not settling on anything for long, until she came to the kitchen. 

Blood crept around the corner of the white cabinets, thick and dark, almost black in places. The center was like a gaping hole, and the edges spread out in thin lines that caught in every tiny imperfection, like jagged cracks in the light gray tiles. She pressed a hand to her mouth and took a step forward, trying to breathe deep and slow through her nose. There was a faint metallic scent in the air, and she hiccuped, closing her eyelids tight as an unsettling feeling crept over her.

She felt like she was being watched, like there was something or someone behind her, even though Weaver and Rogers were hovering protectively. Her hand braced on the island, the marble cool and slick under her palm. A splattering of red dots covered the corner, just to the left of the sink, and a buzzing noise welled up in her ears. She sucked in a breath as her vision flashed white, blinking hard as she bent forward, feeling as though she was being pushed. Her hands slapped at the counter, pushing back against whoever was behind her as a sharp pain zinged through her head. Hands grabbed at her, pulling her by the shoulders, and she cried out, swinging her right arm behind her.

There was another loud cry, and the hands released her. She scrambled forward, her eyes fixed on the knife block at the corner of the counter when another body stepped in her way. Her foot landed on something as she tried to pivot away and then slid backwards, sending her skidding to the floor. She screamed as her palms made contact with the kitchen floor, and her eyes darted around, seeing only red splotches and pools in front of her. Looking down, there was more oozing out from her, warm and wet, making her shirt cling to her.

“_Belle!”_

She sucked in a gasping breath and pushed back, colliding with something, and tried to scream as she thrashed. Her legs kicked out, catching one of the bar stools and sending it crashing to the floor.

“Belle! _Stop!_”

_Ian._

His voice was right in her ear, telling her to stop over and over again, until she looked down and saw his legs sticking out alongside hers. An instant later, Rogers came into her vision, his face full of concern and his hands held up in submission.

“Belle, it’s us. You’re okay,” he said.

Something was around her arms, pinning them to her sides, and slowly, as the buzz in her ears subsided, she registered that it was Weaver’s arms, holding her tight against his chest as they sat on a kitchen floor for the second time that day. Looking down, she saw her borrowed t-shirt and hooded sweatshirt, clean and bloodless. Her hands were bare too. A choked sob came up from her throat, and her stomach rolled. She gagged and Weaver let her go as she pitched forward, emptying the meager contents of her gut onto the floor.

As soon as she stopped coughing, Rogers was there with a glass of water, which she sipped gratefully. She looked back at Weaver, his face white and his eyes wide, and reached for him. He pushed himself across the floor to her side and took her hand.

“Are you all right?”

Belle managed a nod and took another sip of water before handing the glass back to Rogers. “Yeah...yeah.”

“So,” said Rogers, squatting down in front of them, “this was a spectacularly bad idea.”

* * *

After Belle calmed down, they managed to accomplish their mission of retrieving some of her clothes and personal items from the apartment. Rogers was left with a small bruise on his cheek from his attempt to grab Belle in the kitchen, but for all the ruckus they caused, the primary areas of Belle’s assault to remain thankfully untouched. The neighbor across the hall, however, called the police after hearing her screams, and there was a rather awkward moment where Weaver and Rogers had to explain why they were making an unauthorized visit to a crime scene.

Just as they were about to leave, Graham called Rogers and proceeded to shout at him over the entire mess, which lead to all three of them, against Rogers’ better judgement, heading down to the station. Captain Humbert was less than pleased, but he took one look at Belle and pulled her into a hug.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder at Weaver and Rogers.

“Yes,” she insisted as Graham's arms dropped, allowing her to step back. “I’m - dealing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like it.” Then he fixed Rogers with a look. “No more shenanigans, right?”

Rogers nodded, sufficiently chastened.

“I hope you got everything you needed,” Rogers said after Humbert headed back to his office. “Because we are never doing that again.”

Belle sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have - I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

Rogers shook his head and put his arm around her, hugging her sideways. “S’all right, love. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing, and it’s on me that you were even let inside.”

She made a face and squeezed him back. “I hope Graham’s not too pissed at you.”

“Nothing I haven’t weathered before.” Rogers and Weaver exchanged a look and wry smiles. Then he looked down at Belle. “It’s not your fault.”

She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the sleeve of the hoodie she’d borrowed from Weaver. It was baggy all over and the sleeves had to be rolled twice to stay above her hands, but it was soft and it smelled like him. As much as she liked that, at least she’d have her own clothes for the next few days. After that she’d have to figure out what to do if her apartment wasn’t released. “Some of it is.”

“Hey,” came Weaver’s soft voice. “Don’t put this shit on yourself, okay? There’s only two guilty parties here, and they’re both in jail.”

She nodded. “Can I see him?”

Rogers jaw tensed. “Who? Jack?” Another nod, and he looked up at the ceiling, in partial disbelief that she was even asking after the debacle of her apartment visit and the reaction from the Captain. 

“Please?” she asked. “I just - I think if I see him in there it will help.”

Rogers sighed. “_Fine._ But through CCTV only, I’m not taking either of you down to the cells.”

They wound their way through the halls to the back of the station where two officers were sitting in a control room. There were screens everywhere showing different parts of the building, inside and out, including four screens that were fixed on the cells downstairs where they kept suspects and prisoners until they were transferred elsewhere.

The two officers eyed Rogers and Weaver suspiciously as they entered.

“Why don’t you two get some coffee?” Rogers said, pulling out his wallet and sliding out a few bills. “On me.”

“Is the Captain going to have our asses if we do?” one of them asked.

Belle stepped around Weaver, and smiled at the officer. “I’m ADA French. If Humbert has a problem with this, call me.” She fished a card out of her purse and handed it to the officer, who looked at it dubiously.

The two officers then looked at each other and shrugged.

“Your breach of protocol,” the other one said, snatching the money from Rogers’ hand.

After they left, Rogers sat down in a chair and rolled it up to the console. “You’re really sure about this?”

Belle took a breath, then Weaver’s hand, and nodded, and a few seconds later, Rogers had brought up Jack’s cell on one of the larger center screens. She inched closer, her eyes fixed on the figure on the cot. He was sitting up straight, back against the cinder block wall, with his legs bent and crossed, and his hands in his lap. He looked almost relaxed, like he was meditating, and she frowned.

“Has he said anything?” she asked, and Rogers gave her a look.

“You know I can’t tell you that.” Then he sighed. “But no, he hasn’t said anything. He just fucking stares at me when I question him. It’s weird.” He looked back at Belle. “He is definitely one fucked up arsehole.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry. About earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Rogers shook his head and tapped a few buttons, putting the displays back the way they were. “I could have said no, and you two would have done it anyway.” 

He gave both of them a look this time, and Belle and Weaver glanced awkwardly at each other. All three of them knew it was true. 

Weaver frowned, and let go of Belle’s hand. “I’m gonna go have a word with the Captain.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head and her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll meet you out front okay?”

She nodded, Weaver left, and Rogers turned around in the chair, his mouth curved in a sly grin. “That man still loves you, you know that right?”

Belle’s head tilted and then she rolled her eyes. She did, in fact, know that. They hadn’t talked about anything they’d said or done that morning, especially not his confession that he still loved her, but that hadn’t been any real surprise. He still wore his wedding ring for fuck’s sake; if that wasn’t a flashing neon sign that he wasn’t over her she didn’t know what was. The truth was that there was a moment she’d been ready to say it back to him, but then Rogers had called and the rest of the day had been one big downward spiral.

“Yeah,” she said softly.

Rogers rolled forward and took her hands in his. “Look, I don’t know what drove you two apart. I can guess it was probably something to do with him being a wanker, but...”

She laughed and nodded. “He wasn’t the only one though.”

It was a bit strange to admit that out loud, but that was the truth of it. There was plenty of fault and regret to go around. So much in fact that she wasn’t sure how they could ever get through it all if they did want to move forward.

Rogers squeezed her fingers and then let go. “I hope this helped.”

* * *

Weaver and Belle left the station a short while later, but halfway to Weaver’s apartment, Belle remembered something she wanted from her place.

“No.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on. No one is going to know, and I’m prepared this time. I’m not going to freak out.”

Weaver gave her an uncertain glance, and then took the next left.

True to her word, Belle didn’t have much of a reaction to being in her apartment this time. The look of it was still fresh in her mind, as was the experience of seeing it in its current state.

“I’ll call Leroy once they release it,” he said, following after her.

Leroy had been a coroner's assistant for a number of years before going into business with a friend. Now they cleaned up from everything from house fires and burst pipes to car accidents and crime scenes. Weaver trusted him, and so did Belle, and he didn't think she'd have a problem with Leroy handling her apartment, especially if there was nothing left of what Jack did when it was done. Well, nothing that could be seen anyway.

Belle gave Weaver a small smile and made her way to the corner by the large picture window. To either side of the window, along with a second wall to the right, were floor to ceiling bookshelves. Her fingers trailed over the spines of the books as she moved. She wanted something to lose herself in and perhaps to help her sleep, but she wasn’t sure what would accomplish that. The mystery thriller she’d been reading up until Thursday was definitely off the list for a while, but she was looking for something more soothing anyway. Poetry, or a romance perhaps, something a little mindless and trashy if she was so inclined.

Her hand skimmed over an old favorite, _Her Handsome Hero_, a period romance with a vague supernatural element, set in the Scottish Highlands, and she smiled. Rereading that would probably lead to even more explicit dreams and mornings than she’d already had, and even more mistakes being made. Still, she wouldn’t be staying with Ian much longer, so she pulled it off the shelf and tucked it under her arm. A biography came next, along with a book of mythologies with the stories told in a more modern setting, and then she came to something she didn’t recognize.

“What is it?” Weaver asked, coming over to her side. He could see the strange look on her face from across the room. 

She looked up at him, her face pale. “This isn’t mine.”

He frowned and examined the shelf and the book, looking all around to see if there was anything dangerous hidden around it. He had a case once where a man was poisoned in his law office and the delivery mechanism had been hidden in the spine of an old law book. Carefully, he eased the book off the shelf, holding it with his fingertips and letting it hang open, the pages fanning and fluttering as he waved it back and forth. Nothing fell out and nothing appeared to be otherwise embedded in the book, so he carried it over the coffee table and set it down.

They perched on the edge of the sofa together and looked at each other before turning back to the book.

Belle reach out and flipped it open before he could object, the leather cover snapping against the wood as she let it go. Something was written on the blank page at the front, in a very slanted, almost jagged, script.

_For Gretchen._

“Who’s Gretchen?” Belle asked quietly.

Weaver shrugged and lifted the page with the tip of his finger, not wanting to leave any significant prints behind. There was nothing but a title page next, labeling the book a compilation of poetry printed a couple of years ago.

Belle leaned down and looked at the book from the side, her eyes narrowing. “I think some pages have been marked.”

He leaned down as well, nearly resting against her. She pointed towards one particular spot, a page near the front of the book, and he could see where the corner of the page had been folded in, effectively bookmarking something in that section. They shared another look, and then Belle used her fingernail to lift the pages open at that exact place.

On the page was a passage highlighted in yellow.

_no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark_

Belle frowned. The rest of the prose on the page was a poem by Warsan Shire, a British poet who wrote this specific entry about refugees like her parents, fleeing conflicts in Africa. It was a rather well known line in literary circles, but it seemed strange without any other context.

“Well, that’s...odd,” Weaver commented.

She found the next marker and flipped to it, using the pads of her fingers against the edges of the pages and her nails to try to avoid touching or contaminating anything. They found another highlight, this time in pink, in the middle of the page.

_This lamb who’s gone –_  
_this infant she is_  
_pinioned to – does not listen,_  
_she drives with all her magic down a_  
_different route to darkness where_  
_all life begins._

Belle blinked and wrinkled her nose when she read the author. She was not a fan of radical feminist nonsense, particularly where their thoughts on prostitution and gender identity were concerned, and it made the selection all the more strange, particularly when combined with the previous one. She shivered.

“You okay?” She nodded, and Weaver’s lips pressed together. “Any ideas where this came from or what it means?”

"No clue," she replied. Then she took a breath and flipped to the next bookmark, finding a passage in green.

_Do you want a battered hide,_  
_Or scratches to your face applied?_  
_Thus his sister calm replied. _

_Sister, do not raise my wrath._  
_I'd make you into mutton broth_  
_As easily as kill a moth_

Her eyes scanned to the bottom of the page where the name Lewis Carroll was printed. She wasn’t familiar with much of Carroll’s poetry, and this piece in particular had a malevolent, dangerous feeling to it. It felt like being a voyeur into an abusive household as the lines above the selected text described a parent admonishing a son, followed by that son turning the same harsh words on his sister.

Belle swallowed hard and sat back.

_Gretchen._

Somehow that named seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t place from where. All of the highlighted passages taken together spoke to her of a violent, oppressive home, where parents turned on children, and children turned on each other. The book had been placed there for her to find, or perhaps for the police to find as they searched for signs of her killer. Her stomach felt hollow and her throat tightened as she tried to swallow again. 

“What is it?” Weaver asked, taking her hand.

“Jack,” she breathed, squeezed his fingers hard. She turned her head and looked into Ian’s eyes, barely holding back the shudder that wanted to shake her whole body. “He left it for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Jack are two separate people. Their connection will be explained in the next chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Weaver and Belle make a major discovery in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope this clears up some of the confusion with the plot of this story. This is majorly late and unbeta'd and barely read over. I'm so sorry for this being a total hot mess and probably riddled with typos. For the Writer's Month prompt#20: weird.

_9 weeks and 3 days ago..._

Belle sighed heavily and sat back in her chair, tossing her pen on the table.

Four days ago she’d fucked her ex-husband on the sofa just behind her. She expected it to cause some fracture in their working relationship, for him to come in the next day or even show up at her apartment to start some huge argument, but things went on as if it never even happened. That unnerved her more than the shouting would have.

At least three different times, she’d almost brought it up, but chickened out at the last second. Things had been too good between them these last few weeks. It was - nice. They’d become some kind of friends again, a bit like it was after they first met, when it was sarcastic, flirty remarks after testimony, or over drinks at Roni’s, and she could admit to herself that she was loathing messing any of that up. Except of course it had escalated from there, just as it had when they finally started dating. One dinner and she let him push her up against the door to her apartment and kiss her senseless, and a minute later she was dragging him into her apartment. 

That first time they didn’t even make it to her bed, and she was left with an amusing pattern of lines on her back from the exposed brick wall of her living room. He stayed the night, and by morning she ached like she’d done back to back yoga classes at the gym. She had never had a lover that attentive, who found every button she had and pushed them over and over, or who seemed to like everything she did; hard and rough one time, and soft and intimate the next. Sex was the one thing they never got wrong.

She shouldn’t have let things go that far with Ian, but for a moment while they were dancing it felt like old times, like none of the shit between them had happened, like there wasn’t a murder board behind them and autopsy reports on the table. It was always so damn good with him, and the case overwhelmed her so much that she needed something to push all of it away. Except when it was over everything came rushing back.

A tingling shiver crept over her, and she abruptly pushed back from the table and stood up, silently chastising herself for getting lost in such thoughts. Again. She rubbed at her tired eyes and wiggled her feet back into her shoes before moving across the room to the whiteboard.

The board was completely covered now with photos, reports, and scribbled notes in marker, all comprising a full timeline of some of the most heinous murders she’d ever seen. Her eyes scanned the top where they had taped pictures of the victims, then sectioned off the board between each of them to group the case elements together. Their names were burned into her brain, their smiling faces - faces that would never smile again - permanent fixtures when she closed her eyes.

She sighed again and the office door opened.

“Well, that was a bloody waste of time.”

Belle turned and watched as Weaver strode quickly across the room, dropping the folder he’d taken with him and his notebook on the table.

“What was?” she asked, almost grateful that they could talk about the case and pull her mind away from other things.

“Trying to find Eloise Gardner,” he said, giving her a flat smile. “As near as I can tell, she doesn’t fucking exist.”

Belle made a face. “What?”

He huffed and sat on the edge of the table. “Her last known address is an empty lot that up until a year ago was a community garden. She doesn’t have a driver’s license in this state. She hasn’t paid taxes, apparently ever. I can’t find a Social Security Number, state ID, W-2, forwarding address, employer, or any official piece of paper to prove she existed.”

Belle sank onto the sofa and dropped her head to her hands as she breathed. She looked up at Weaver feeling more tired and drained than she had in days. “So why did Branson say she could prove he was innocent?”

Weaver shrugged. “No clue. Though he did murder five people, so I’m not sure he’s making the best life choices.”

She snorted at that and shook her head. “Did you have any luck with any of the others?”

He turned and picked up the notebook, opening it and flipping passed a few pages. “I found Mr. Porter, the garbage man, at work, but Mrs. Emery was not at her apartment, and no one had seen her in days.”

Belle blinked. “You’re joking…”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Her head dropped again in defeat. “So, our eye witness to the disposal of the last victim, just up and disappeared? Fucking great.”

Weaver started to smile. “Not exactly.” She lifted her head slowly, eyebrows raised. “I tracked down the building manager, and he said she moved out. I went to the post office and they have a forwarding address of a nursing home. I went there and found out she’d had a stroke. Her daughter…” He paused and flipped another page in his notebook. “Laura, arrived from Cambridge last week and has been helping to get her settled in.”

“Cambridge...Massachusetts?”

His lips twitched. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed and then she made a face. “England?”

“Her daughter teaches at the university,” he said, crossing to the sofa and sitting down beside Belle.

“Nice…” she muttered. “So, is she still with it enough to testify?”

“Seems so from talking to her.” He flipped his notebook closed. “She repeated everything the same as in her official statement. The doctor I spoke to said she should be fine now that she’s on medication, and that he’ll provide whatever documentation of her mental faculties is needed.

Belle flopped back against the sofa and slumped. “Thank god.”

“So,” he said, smiling. “That was the last six hours of my life. How was yours?”

“Lousy.” Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling and then she pushed herself up, crossing to the table to pick up a few photos. “I got copies of the crime scene photos we were missing from Crenshaw and Hughes, the last two. Nothing all that enlightening or helpful, though.” 

She flipped through them as she walked back towards the sofa. “It’s all mostly background stuff that got left out, like the cars that were in the area, some random plant material, uh, shoe prints from Branson’s boots, and this which I thought you would ”

Weaver’s eyebrows lifted both at her tone and the smirking look she had on her face. She held out one photo and he leaned forward, holding the edge of it between his fingers as he looked at it. After a long moment, he groaned.

“Shit.”

Belle let out a snorting laugh. “Exactly.”

He shook his head as she set the rest of the pictures down on the coffee table. “Some crime scene tech actually took a picture of dog shit.”

She shrugged. “I guess they were being thorough?”

“Thoroughly fucking stupid, maybe,” he said absently, and she laughed.

She turned to grab something else, and as she pivoted on her right foot, her toes pulled back inside her shoe. A curse slipped out and she stumbled, the cramping pain contorting her foot and making it impossible to walk.

“Are you okay?” Weaver asked, sitting forward on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”

She bent and took off her shoe, grabbing at her toes to try to relieve the tension. “It’s just a cramp. I think I’ve been pacing this office too much today.” She wobbled as she tried to walk wearing only one shoe and pressing the toes of her cramped foot against the floor. “_Fuck._”

He rolled his eyes. “Come here.”

Her look was dubious, but she hobbled over to the sofa and dropped down with a hiss. He reached for her leg, pulling it up and tipping her back on the couch. She let out a pained noise, as she struggled to point her toes and make the cramp stop.

“Relax,” he said softly, wrapping his warm hand over her toes.

Slowly, he worked her foot until the muscles stopped contracting, and she leaned back, resting her head on the arm of the sofa as she let him pull her foot completely into his lap. Under previous circumstances, this would have been more than welcome, and a possible prelude to other activities as his hand naturally crept higher and higher on her legs. Anytime she had to be in court all day, pacing and walking around, her feet would rebel and start cramping painfully by the end of the day. She blamed it on all the damage she’d done to them in dance and ballet in her younger days, followed by too many years of shoving them into heels constructed by masochists who thought all women had dainty, narrow feet that never went over a size seven.

After a few minutes, she was biting back moans as he worked his thumb against her arch, stroking the muscle up and down before making a sweep over the ball of her foot. Part of her wanted to let him do this for the next hour to both of her feet, followed immediately by her shoulders and neck. But a greater part of her knew she needed to stop things before they went to far. While those two factions warred within her, she rolled her head to the side and stared at the miscellaneous photographs.

A shoe print stared back at her from the top of the pile, the ones found at the last scene when Branson had been arrested, and she frowned. Something was poking at the back of her brain, something that was unsettled and curious at the same time. Abruptly, she yanked her foot away from Weaver, and pushed up.

Weaver let out a light grunt as Belle shoved against him. “What is it?”

“Hold on,” she said, scrambling to sit up. "Something's...weird."

She picked up the photo of Branson’s boot print, and stared at it for a few seconds, noting the size and the markers that had been placed around it. Then she set it to the side and shuffled through the rest of the photos.

Weaver frowned at her and then picked up the photo she’d set down. “What are you looking for?”

“The other print.” She was getting frustrated and wondering if she’d imagined it, when he reached out and snatched up the picture she’d been looking for.

“This one?” he asked, holding it out.

She grabbed both photos from him, and laid them on the table. Her eyes darted back and forth between them, as her eyes widened. She wasn’t crazy, but this case sure was. “Look.”

She pointed at the pictures, and he looked back and forth between them. There was nothing jumping out at him, but it had been a long day of driving around and making calls. 

“Okay?”

Belle huffed and pointed at the marker on the first photo. “See the measurement on the one from his arrest?” Weaver nodded. “And now the one from the second crime scene.”

His head tilted slightly, and then it hit him. “They’re different.”

“Yeah,” she said, starting to smile. “Branson’s boot was a size eleven. But the first one is a ten.”

He shook his head. “They can’t both be his shoe can they?”

She shrugged. “They aren’t marked as elimination prints from any of the officers or techs. What’s his shoe size from his booking?”

Weaver got up and crossed to the table, sorting through the stacks of folders until he found the report of vital statistics from Nick Branson’s booking at the station. He scanned the page, his eyes going wide as he turned around.

“He’s an eleven.”

Belle stood up, her body practically vibrating with new energy. “There’s no way someone is going to wear a different size boot like that. A half size maybe, but not a whole size.”

He nodded and took a breath. “You know what that might mean then, right?”

She swallowed hard, her excitement waning in light of the new reality of the case. “We have two killers.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After taking the newly discovered poetry book to the station, Weaver and Belle have a heart to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEELINGS. I actually started to cry while I was writing this. I'm sorry. There's a lot of exposition in the beginning, but I didn't want it to get too unwieldy. Enjoy a little bit of Nick and Jack's backstory as I attempt to setup some more plot. For the Writer's Month prompt #21: hope.

It was another two hours spent at the station after they brought in the poetry book.

Rogers and Humbert were too shocked to chastise them for going back to Belle’s apartment, but that was the only small blessing. Belle explained her theory, that Jack left the book at some point while he was in her apartment. Everyone agreed that the highlighted phrases were disturbing when put in that context, especially given the strange nature of Jack and Nick’s relationship, as well as the bits and pieces they’d been able to pull together of their background.

They boys were brothers, four years apart, with Jack being the oldest. Their father, Edgar Branson, was assumed to have been abusive, though there was little actual evidence of it beyond one trip to the emergency room for a broken arm when Jack was eight. It was a spiral fracture, but in reality it could have come from any number of possible incidents. Their father died of lung cancer a few years ago, while living in a care home, and it appeared that at no point after high school did either son have any contact with the man.

In general, there was very little paper trail on their family, and no evidence of a sister as one of the poetry selections seemed to reference. Weaver had been unable to find anything on their mother beyond her name on their birth certificates, Ellen Branson. She didn’t have any employment or tax record, and tracking down the marriage certificate had taken six calls to three different states and the better part of an afternoon.

Rogers made reviewing records for any indication of a sister his first priority for the morning, and Belle agreed to come back in the afternoon to file an amendment to her statement, covering the return trip to her apartment. After that, Humbert all but kicked Weaver and Belle out of the station and forbade them entry with the only exception being official business.

They returned to Weaver’s apartment some time later, after a brief trip to the nearby market. Belle insisted she wasn’t hungry, but Weaver knew that once he got into cooking she would likely come around. Fortunately, he was right, and after a steaming hot shower, she came wandering back into the kitchen, sniffing loudly, just as he was pouring the noodles into the strainer.

He smirked as he slid onto one of the stools at the island. “I see someone is still a sucker for garlic butter sauce.”

“Shut up,” she replied around a mouthful of noodles, and he laughed.

The rest of the evening consisted of Belle at one end of the sofa, reading a book, and Weaver flipping channels back and forth between a football match and The Maltese Falcon. He didn’t really care about either, he was just trying to keep his mind occupied instead of wondering what would happen when it got late enough to go to bed. Part of him was all too happy to curl up with her again and spend the night beside her, while another part desperately wanted to protect his heart until he knew where he stood.

He’d been a little too ready to throw himself at her before, to take every moment she would give him, and give her everything she wanted. It stung when she pretended their first encounter in her office never happened, and it was even worse after the second time. He felt like he’d taken advantage of the situation, in spite of the marks she’d left on his back when she came.

Belle yawned, and he glanced at his phone. It was after nine, and given everything she’d been through that day, it was no wonder she was worn out.

“You should rest,” he said, turning down the volume on the television.

She sighed, but didn’t look up from her book. “Yeah.”

“You can have the bed again.”

She marked her spot in the book, and looked up at him. “And you’re going to sleep out here?”

He swallowed and nodded. “I think that’s probably best.”

“Is it?” She bit her lip, and then shook her head as she pushed up off the couch. “Sorry. I’ll just go. Good night.”

Weaver caught her hand as she walked by him, and her fingers reflexively curled around his. “Belle.” She stopped, and he stood up. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

She looked down and watched their joined hands swinging slowly back and forth by her hip. She knew they couldn’t keep going this way, but the thought of Ian sharing the bed with her was immediately calming.

“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes closing as he turned and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll clean up out here and come in, okay?”

She nodded, and gave his hand a squeeze in thanks.

Weaver sighed as he slid between the cool sheets. The bed had been their most expensive purchase as a couple, and while he’d initially balked at paying so much for a mattress, it was definitely the best possible thing they could have done. Coming home to a comfortable bed was an amazing feeling, no matter how long or shitty the day was. That Belle had been in it as well made it as near to heaven as he imagined he’d ever get.

The intervening years after the divorce had found him sleeping in the chair or on the sofa more nights than in the bedroom. It had done his back no favors, but it was too hard to be in a space that had been such a refuge and was now full of bitter memories.

Belle was laying on her side, facing him, so he stayed on his back. He hoped she’d fall asleep quickly, for both their sakes, but that didn’t seem to be likely.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

He frowned up at the ceiling. “Do what?”

“How do you keep all this shit from affecting you?”

He exhaled and rolled onto his side, facing her. “I don’t. I just...ignore it.” He shifted and tucked one arm under the pillow to prop his head up. “I keep moving on, until eventually it catches up with me, and I do dumb shite like punch a wall or shove some arsehole’s head in a barrel of water.”

Her lips curved and she let out a snorting laugh. “Right.”

He gave her a half smile that he hoped she could see in the dark. “The only way I can deal with the things we see is to go out and keep trying to stop it from happening.” Then he sighed heavily. “Failing that, I try to find the prick who did it.”

“And shove their head in a barrel?” she asked, though he could hear the grin in her voice.

He chuckled softly. “If they deserve it.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and he nearly rolled over again.

“I just...” She paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what to do. Like..I know how to deal _with_ victims, how to talk to them about the trial, about what to expect, about how it will be like it’s happening all over again. But...I don’t - I don’t know how to _be_ a victim, you know?”

Her wobbly voice made his throat tight with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Belle. None of this should have happened.”

She sniffled and pushed a strand of her hair back. “It’s not your fault. We kicked the hornet’s nest together. If we had thought that Jack would come after either of us...”

Weaver let out a ragged, shaky breath and closed his eyes. Every time he thought about walking into the emergency room, about seeing Belle covered in blood, he was filled with a nearly blinding rage. The hand under his pillow curled into a fist. 

“I wanna kill him...” he muttered.

She reached for his free hand where it lay on the bed between them. “I know. But you’re better than that.”

He opened his eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was so emphatic, and he shook his head. “You always want to see the good in people.” Then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Even when it’s not there.”

“Stop.” She squeezed his fingers. “You know you’re a good man.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Some days maybe.”

She gave him a look and tugged at his hand. “No, every day. I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed, “we know how that ended.”

She pushed up on her elbow. “Hey.” She pulled on their joined hands, drawing them across to settle them under her chin, against the bare skin of her collarbone and chest. “Don’t - don’t do that.”

Her body was so warm and soft and he wanted to savor every second of it. “Sorry,” he managed. “I’m - I’m sorry. For what I said earlier, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

Belle frowned. “No. No, you didn’t. You were being honest, and that’s - that’s all I ever wanted you to do. To trust me and talk to me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Better late than never, eh?”

“I think so,” she replied, shifting her body closer until their hands between them were the only thing keeping them apart. She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Thank you. For everything.”

His jaw clenched as he swallowed hard.The lump in his throat felt like a rock. “Aye.”

She sniffed again and closed her eyes, feeling a tickle against her cheek as a tear loosed itself. “Fuck, I’m such a mess.”

“Hey,” he pulled his hand free from hers and reached up, brushing the wet trails from her face. When she opened her eyes, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re a bloody gorgeous mess.”

She pushed herself up to sit, her tears coming faster now. Her hands swiped at her cheeks and then pushed her hair back as her shoulders started to shake. Weaver sat up with her, scooting back against the pillows, and stretched his arm around her, letting her fall against him as she cried quietly. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it out.”

Belle began to sob, her tears falling on his chest and soaking into his t-shirt. His chest ached and he closed his eyes, dropping his head to rest his cheek against her. “None of it’s your fault, okay? All right?”

She shifted back and looked up at him. His eyes were shining in the faint glow from the street lights outside, and she managed a small nod.

“I’ve never - never been mad at you for any of it,” he said. “Not - not this, not the divorce, not - not our _baby..._” His voice broke on the word, sending his own tears tumbling free. “Not any of it. Do you understand?”

She reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. “Why? Why did - why did you do it?”

He shook his head. “What?”

Her bottom lip wobbled, and her body shook as she tried to get the words out, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why did - why did you sign the papers?”

“You left,” he said. Confusion and surprise at her question made him feel dizzy. “It’s - it’s what you wanted.”

Belle sniffed loudly and rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand before she leaned in and rested her forehead against his. Everything was a mess and she didn’t know how to fix it. There was so much that needed to get out, that she’d kept to herself because she’d thought it was for the best. Except she didn’t know that it was anymore.

“I don’t know what I wanted.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, but it didn’t seem to matter as she collapsed against him, sobs shaking her body. He held her tight until she got everything out, her body giving up out of pure exhaustion and finally letting her fall asleep. The feeling of her in his arms was like nothing else. It gave him hope that maybe things could be better after all of this, but he’d thought that before and it ended worse than he could have ever imagined. He wanted to soak up as much of Belle as he could while she was here, but he knew that when things finally went back to normal it would wreck him all over again to see her go.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: A bad day and an even worse decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry. This kinda sucks, but here we are. This is for the amazing thatravenclawbitch on the occasion of her birthday. Love you, babe. For the Writer's Month prompt #22: summer.

_1 week ago..._

The revelation that there were two killers had been confirmed once the shoe print evidence had been reexamined. They’d spent the better part of the last week trying to track down Nick Branson’s connections and coming up dry every time. The summer heat wasn’t helping either, and the old building’s air conditioning had been on the fritz for the last two days. It had gotten so warm in her office that she gave up on her usual layers and was down to a silky cream colored camisole, her gray skirt, and no stockings.

Weaver had been in a mood all day, snipping and snarking at every other thing she said. They couldn’t agree on what to do next, and the frustration of the case and the lack of acknowledgement of what had happened between them boiled over. They’d had a pointless fight over the dry erase markers and the layout of the board now that they had two suspects, after which she’d stormed out of the office.

A few minutes later, when she came back in, he’d rearranged the board. That had been her tipping point.

“What the hell?” She pushed him aside and scowled at the board. “This isn’t going to make any sense.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “This is how I always do it.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Whatever, fine, you do the fucking board.”

He rolled his eyes and threw the marker down on the table. “What is this really about?”

Belle spun on her heel, folding her arms over her chest. “What the hell does that mean?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re not seriously mad about the fucking colors of the markers and the way I’m taping paper to a whiteboard. So what is it?”

“I’m just -” She paused and huffed. “I’m just so fucking tired of you having to be right. I’m the one that figured out the shoe prints were different, and you’ve been acting like a huge dick since then. Are you pissed that I noticed it and _you_ didn’t?”

Weaver let out a short laugh, and shook his head. “Why would I care who figured out what?”

“I don’t know, Ian!” She said, spreading her arms to either side before letting them fall to her sides. “I don’t - I don’t know what the hell this is. What are we doing here? You’ve been a jerk all day, and you won’t just fucking _talk_ to me.”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back for a moment. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” she asked. “Were you going to tell me about your visit to Branson’s ex-girlfriend yesterday? Or how you threatened her to try to get information? Because I don’t remember you saying anything about that.”

He sighed and ran his hands over his face. “I didn’t threaten her -”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Right. I’m sure you were a perfect gentleman and that’s why she called the station to tell Graham that she didn’t know anything and not to send ‘that asshole cop back here again’?”

“Why do you care how I get the information?” he asked, the volume of his voice increasing. He shook his head and took a few steps towards her. 

“Because _someone_ needs to protect you from yourself!”

“Why?” Weaver could feel his entire body tense. He moved forward again, and she backed away, shuffling until she collided with the wall beside the sofa.

“Why?” she repeated, clearly as angry with him as he was with her. She wasn’t unsure if she was more annoyed that he wasn’t denying it, or that he seemed to think it was no big deal. “Because _you_ -” She stopped and shoved roughly at his chest, “keep trying to commit career suicide. Because you’re better than that. Because you’re - a - a _friend_ \- and I don’t want -“

Her words were cut off when he lunged forward and put his hand around her neck, applying just enough pressure to get her attention. She froze, but she didn’t try to pull away or knee him. Instead she just stared up at him with those big blue eyes, her pupils so dilated he could barely see the color around the rim. Her throat flexed as she swallowed, and he could feel everything tighten between them, the air heavy and thick.

He pressed close and put his mouth close to her ear. “We’re not _friends,_ and you _fucking_ know it.”

She licked her lips, and his eyes trailed down, watching as her breasts rose and fell in short little breaths. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her camisole in spite of the heat of the room, and her back arched slightly. There was something incredibly erotic about the feel of her skin against the pads of his fingers, about a hold meant for violence and pain causing arousal and pleasure. 

Her head tipped up. “What are you going to do?” 

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the same as he had done just a little while ago when they were in a similar situation and about to make a huge mistake. His hand slid down over her chest to cup her breast, squeezing gently.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding far more certain than she felt. She knew this was wrong, but for some reason she’d decided she didn’t care. She inhaled on a sharp breath, her hands fumbling for his belt.

He leaned forward with every intention of kissing her, but instead he just brushed his lips over hers teasingly, until she pushed off the wall, straining for him even as she tried to work his jeans open. When he finally pressed his lips to hers it was wet and rough, a kiss that ravaged as much as anything. She whimpered into his mouth, her body pressing into his touch. He played with her while he kissed her, running his knuckles over her aching nipples. 

Belle broke the kiss and gasped, and he pushed his leg between hers. She nearly sobbed at the friction as she moved against him, his jeans rough against the thin, damp material covering her pussy. Her arousal soaked through onto the denim, the two fabrics sliding over each other, rubbing her clit just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her skin. He nipped and licked at her neck, his left hand still playing with her nipple while the other slipped into her hair. “Come for me. Come before I even get my cock in you.”

Then he pinched her nipple hard, sending a shock of pain and pleasure running through her. She cried out and then bit her lip as the tension broke suddenly.

“Ian -” she managed, unable to string any more words together after that while her cunt contracted and her hips rolled against his leg, riding out her pleasure.

She hadn’t quite come down from her high when he moved his leg, and she nearly cursed him. Before she got the chance he was reaching beneath her skirt. His fingers found the sodden material and cupped her. “Fucking Christ, Belle.”

Belle looked down and could see the wet spot on his jeans as he took hold of her underwear and pulled hard. The sound and feeling of the fabric ripping was lost in her gasp. His hand ran up her thigh to feel the heat of her, and slipped his fingers in where she was already wet and aching. She reached out and grabbed at his shirt, wishing she could touch more of him, missing the feeling of his skin beneath her hands.

Weaver drove one finger hard into her pussy, pushing deep and pulling out a cry of pleasure. She lifted one leg to his hip, trying to get closer, get more.

“Ian,” she begged.

He added another finger, stretching her, and she immediately began riding them, her hips to match his bruising pace.

“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Hard and rough?”

Her teeth sunk into her lip and she managed a ragged, “Yes.”

She was so close to coming again, her body already desperate for it. Her nails dug into his shirt, pulling at the fabric. She wished she could give him the same pleasure he was giving her.

“Please,” she gasped. 

He smirked and nipped at her earlobe. “Please what?”

His fingers left her, and she keened, the peak she was so close to falling over fading with every second. She hated that she was this easy, that he knew how to push every single one of her buttons and get what he wanted. And that he knew she wanted it too. “Fuck me.”

Weaver fumbled with the buckle of his belt and the zip on his jeans, managing to free his cock. She looked down at his erection, bobbing obscenely between them. Her hand wrapped around him, her grip loose and almost teasing as she moved up and down his length. Every grunt and curse was music to her ears, and when she brushed her thumb over the head of his cock, he jerked in her hand. Her pussy throbbed as she recalled the feeling of it inside her.

“Belle - fuck -” He swore as she let go of him, and took a moment to catch his breath.

He wanted her naked, wanted the warmth of her skin and the soft press of her curves. He wanted nothing between them, but instead there was everything. Clothes, hurtful words, and too much time.

Weaver bent and hooked his hands beneath her knees, lifting her up off the ground. She let out a surprised little noise, and he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her with his body. Her hand reached down to take him in hand.

He swore again, and she leaned her head forward to kiss him as he slid into her with one long, hard thrust. She bit his lip and cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounded into her. Their movements made a soft thud against the wall, and she prayed that the late hour meant everyone had gone home. He pressed his mouth to the base of her neck, sucking hard on her skin, using his teeth and tongue to scrape and soothe.

One of her hands began tugging at the short strands of his hair, and he felt the first flutters of her cunt around him.He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, but he didn’t want to stop, couldn’t imagine ever doing anything but sliding in and out of Belle’s hot, wet cunt while she begged him to give her more.

“You feel so fucking good around my cock,” he said, burying his face against her neck. “Wanna feel you come again.”

Her only response was a strangled cry and a jut of her hips. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other hand he reached between them to find her clit, hard and slick with her juices. His fingers rubbed across it, and she swore loudly, bucking against him as he flicked the swollen nub. 

Belle was about to lose all control, his fingers almost bruising everywhere they touched, his cock bottoming out inside her. She gripped the back of his neck, her blunt nails digging in, and she thought about what she used to do his back when they were like this, the sting of his hand on her ass, and how they left each other with marks for days.

She came hard and fast on his cock, her shout of pleasure cut off as her breath left her, liquid dripping down her legs as he pulsed inside her. Her head fell against his chest, and she swallowed hard between pants. 

None of this was right.

_Fuck._

She’d done it again, and suddenly the pleasure that had been coursing through her made her feel sick. Her stomach dropped and she pushed against him, forcing him to let her down. She tried to breathe slowly through her nose, in and out. This was how it had happened before, this was how she’d gotten pregnant and made everything fall apart. They fought and they fucked and they broke.

“Belle, don’t do this -” He bent to pull up his jeans, and then reached for her.

“No,” she said, turning away from him. 

Weaver caught her arm and yanked her to him. “Stop walking away from me!”

“Let go!” She pulled back, but he refused to give, his fingers digging into her arm until she hissed. “I can’t - I can’t do this Ian.”

He dropped his hand, and stepped back, the disgust on her face a clear enough message. “You’ve already done this. Twice.”

She opened her mouth to try to explain, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t bother.”

He stepped passed her, and she whirled around, slapping her palm against his shoulder in anger. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

Weaver stopped at the door to the office, and turned slowly. His eyes were dark and hard, and she swallowed.

“Why?” he snapped. “It’s all you’ve ever done to me.”

The door shut behind him, and her eyes closed as she dropped to the floor, her palm catching the sob when it left her throat.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogers makes a major break in the case, while Weaver and Belle almost make a major break in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate Rogers, the man is just doing his job. ;) For the Writer's Month prompt #25: flowers. Also for the August smut prompt at @a-monthly-rumbelling, "I'm not going to stop until you come."

Detective Rogers leaned back in his chair and scowled across the table. 

After requesting to speak to an officer, Nick Branson had been jerking him around for the last forty minutes. At first it seemed like he was ready to talk about the things his brother had done, but then all he would say were things they already knew about the case. There was something unnerving about Branson. He could be charming and calm one minute, talking about baseball - he was a long suffering Mariners fan - and the next he would be an entirely different person.

His eyes were the first thing that changed, darkening ever so slightly. Then his body moved, shoulders squaring, back straightening, as the way he held himself hardened. His hands folded in front of him, almost casually, as if the cuffs weren’t there at all. His gaze was unnerving, and Rogers shifted in his seat.

“Look, I’m tired of playing games,” Rogers said, shaking his head. “Tell us what Jack did. What you did. Or you can sit in your cell until trial. We have enough evidence to bury both of you.”

He pushed back from the table, anxious to get away from the penetrating stare of a multiple murderer, as Branson leaned forward and slammed his fists down, the chain connecting his cuffs rattling. “I told that other detective! Go. Find. Eloise. Gardener!”

“That’s a dead end, mate,” Rogers said, standing up and trying to remain impassive even as the hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Detective Weaver found your bullshit empty lot.”

Nick sat back in the chair and laughed. It was a jarring, abrasive sound, and Rogers cringed internally. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping. “She’s good at hiding.” 

Rogers barely suppressed a shiver and turned to leave, reaching the door in three long strides. Branson called out to him as he pulled it open.

“If you do find her,” Nick said, the grin in his voice making Rogers’ stomach turn. “You should bring her some flowers.”

Rogers turned, frowning. Branson met his eyes with a dead-eyed stare and a smile that was flat and showed too many teeth. “She likes daisies.”

* * *

For the first time in weeks, Belle didn’t feel tired when she awoke.

She felt like every tear she had soaked into Weaver’s shirt the night before. For the first time in a long time they were open and honest with each other, laying things bare without it turning into a shouting match or a regretful fuck. He held her until she fell asleep, laying on his back with her curled into his side, and they’d stayed like that the entire night.

He reaffirmed that he still loved her, not in words, but in how honest and patient he’d been with her. Even when he’d wanted to take back what he’d said, she wouldn’t let him. A part of her was able to admit she still loved him too, even if she wasn’t able to say it out loud. Things had gotten so bad before that she hadn’t been sure what to do. He wouldn’t talk to her, not the way she wanted or needed him to, and divorce seemed like the one thing that might shock him into action. 

Instead it made him resigned. 

When he gave her the papers back, she hadn’t known what to think. It took her three days, and a bottle of wine to sign her half. It felt like giving up, but it was easy to pretend she had moved on when she didn’t have to see him every day. When he walked into that conference room twelve weeks ago, it was like yanking the bandage off an open wound.

Surprisingly, they worked well together, able to put aside old hurts for the greater good of putting a killer - now two killers - behind bars. She had forgotten how much she missed it, how they complimented each other’s styles, how it was easier to see the pieces fit together when Ian was by her side. 

Sighing, she stretched her legs, feeling her skin slide over Ian’s, and she smiled.

“Morning,” came his sleepy voice. “You okay?”

She nodded, not wanting to break the peaceful cocoon they had made for themselves. “Thank you. For last night.”

“S’no matter.” He flexed his shoulders and exhaled. It hadn’t taken him long to fall asleep once she settled, and it seemed neither of them had strayed far during the night.

“At least I didn’t try to jump you this morning,” she said, keeping her eyes on her hand where it laid over his chest.

She felt his quiet laugh. “I’m not sure I’d stop you the next time.”

At that, Belle swallowed. She knew he was half joking, but it was another reminder of all their recent regrets. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said finally, lifting her head to catch his warm gaze.

He gave her a crooked grin. “I think we’re passed that now.” 

She gave him a look, but couldn’t hold it and let out a short, soft laugh as her head dropped. Then she felt his fingers push into her hair, gently stroking it back from her face, and she looked up again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she managed. Then she sighed. “I mean no, but - I’m better than I was.”

His mouth curved slightly. He knew she wasn’t completely okay, no one could be after everything she’d been through, but knowing that things had improved soothed his worry. There was a tension in her still, and under previous circumstances he would have known exactly what she needed to let it go. He wasn’t sure that would be welcome, in spite of her jokes.

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

There was, but she wasn’t sure she could ask that of him. She’d never intended to let things escalate between them before, or to turn around and break his heart again and again. Last night had been a good start, but they needed to talk about so much more before they could move forward.

“Hey...”

Belle blinked, her vision blurring slightly as she let him draw her up. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, and she bit her lip.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

She reached up to cup his face and settled on the pillow next to him. “I just want to forget. I don’t - I don’t want to think. About anything.”

“Okay.” He let his hand move to the back of her head, cradling it gently as he leaned in.

It was slow to begin, almost tentative, as they traded soft touches and presses of lips, but then she pulled back and met his eyes. “Help me forget?”

Then his mouth was on hers again, kissing her gently and pushing her lips apart. His tongue dipped inside, coaxing hers into play with teasing flicks. She felt her mind calm as a new tension settled in her belly and tilted her head. The kiss grew messy, his tongue stroking roughly against hers as she slid her hands in his short hair, holding him close. He put one hand on the bed near her hip as he pushed up, half covering her with his body. 

The feeling of him pressing down on her made her skin flush with heat and arch against him. His mouth moved to her neck, and she turned her head it to give him more access, gasping as he nipped softly at her pulse point. This was what she needed, to feel the building, blinding pleasure, to break from it and be left limp and sated. It wasn’t without complications later, but for a short time there would be no more unhappy thoughts, no flashes of violence or blood, no startling over a sound or a shadow. Just Ian’s warm body, his hands and lips making her forget everything. 

Weaver pressed a leg between her thighs, and she gave a breathy little cry that had him sucking harder on her neck.

“_Yes,_” Belle gasped, encouraging him with the scrape of her nails over his scalp. 

Her hips jerked, sliding her further up his thigh, and she loved the way that felt. He was strong and lean, warm and soft in all the right places. She wanted him to touch her more, and she wiggled against him, hoping he’d get the message. 

A hand slipped up her side, thumb stroking teasingly beneath her breast, but that wasn’t enough.

“Ian,” she whined, reaching down to grab his hand and guide it up under her shirt.

His hand went willingly, and reached around to grab her ass and pull her tighter against his leg. She rocked her hips into him again, and his fingers moved under her thigh hiking one leg up higher. His cock was a hard ridge, pressing the front of his boxers against her, and she ground against it, rubbing her damp panties along it, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more anything.

Her head tilted and she bit at his jaw, following it with a wet kiss. “More,” she panted. “_Please._”

He pulled back, smirking, and watching as her eyelids fluttered with every jut of her hips. He let go of her leg and brought his hand up under her shirt to cup her bare breast. She pressed towards him, and he gave her a light squeeze followed by a taunting brush of his thumb over her nipple. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she let out a tiny, desperate whimper.

He rubbed and rubbed, and then switched to gentle pinches, pebbling the bud further until finally he gave it one sharp tug, making her cry out. His hand moved down to her hip again, and then he took the same nipple in his mouth, sucking it through her shirt. She clawed at his back, moans and soft sounds slipping out of her as he grazed it with his teeth.

She begged him with his name, and he looked up, feeling a pulsing throb in his cock at the sight of her writhing beneath him. It was all he’d wanted for months, to see her losing herself in pleasure again, in him.

“Please...” she said again, her voice barely a whisper.

Then Weaver bent his head, bringing his mouth to her ear. “I’m not going to stop until you come.”

* * *

Rogers stood at the gate to the empty lot with his hands on his hips.

He looked up and down the street, and frowned, wondering what the fuck he thought he was doing here. There had been something in what Nick Branson said, about how ‘she was good at hiding’ that bothered him. Detective Weaver had been to the same location months ago, and then spent extra hours tracking down real estate, tax, and zoning records to try to find a connection between Branson and the address of the vacant lot.

It was zoned commercial, and at one time there had been an office building with a parking garage on the site. The owner sold it in the 80s, and slowly, over the years, as the neighborhood around it shifted to more residential, the occupants moved on to other locations. In 2014, a fire in the building, caused by old electrical issues, brought on enough structural problems that the building began to separate from the parking garage. The entire thing became so unstable that the city had to tear it down.

A few years later, there was a local effort to turn it into a community garden. That lasted barely a year before it fell into disuse. A few raised beds remained from that endeavor, though they were overgrown with weeds and the wood was mostly rotten.

Rogers pushed the gate open, wincing at the harsh squeak of the corroded metal. His boots scuffed against the barren ground as he walked the perimeter, and he started to feel like this was a complete waste of time. It wasn’t likely that he would find something here that Weaver had missed, especially since all he had to go on where the cryptic ramblings of a serial killer.

He shook his head and scowled, kicking at a large rock. It bounced over the scrubby grass and hit the chainlink fence, rattling it. He blew out a breath and turned to go, but stopped when he spied something in the back corner of the lot, nearest to the dumpster for the building one street over. Crossing to it, his breath caught as he realized it was a patch of daisies.

_You should bring her some flowers. She likes daisies._

He could hear Nick’s voice in his head. It had to be a coincidence, but at this point, he would take just about anything to get something to push the case forward. With ADA French’s direct involvement, the case was being reassigned, but the original trial date for Nick was still set. Jack was an added complication that Nick’s attorney was taking full advantage of. If they didn’t make the cases against both of them as strong as possible, it would be too easy for one to blame the other for the bulk of the murders. If that occurred, then Nick would only go to jail for false imprisonment of Henry Mills, which would be a few years if they were lucky, and Jack would get who knows what for assaulting Belle.

It would be far less than they deserved and the thought made Rogers’ stomach turn.

He stared down at the daisies and pushed at the dirt with the toe of his boot. It seemed to be heaped in that corner, as if someone had dug out a space to plant the flowers instead of them growing there naturally. The blooms themselves were quite wilted and spindly looking. Judging by the look of the ground, and the knowledge that a building had been buried on the lot, it was a miracle anything at all managed to grow here.

Something was bothering him, though, and he kept rubbing at the ground with his boot until he’d carved out a rut in the earth. After a long moment, he went back to his car and came back with a small, collapsible shovel. It was designed to be used in winter to clear away snow and ice, but there was no reason it couldn’t move a little dirt in a pinch. He jabbed at the ground to loosen it, and then scraped it to the side.

After a few minutes, he had a decent little ditch dug around the daisies, and he knelt down on the ground to pull the flowers away. He tossed them behind him, and sat back on his heels. There was something further down in the dirt, something dark, and he used the corner of the shovel to pull more of the ground away. As soon as he did, he knew what it was; a black plastic trash bag.

Rogers closed his eyes for a moment, knowing full well what was usually found in buried trash bags in vacant lots. He ran back to his car and came back with a small kit that contained caution tape, evidence tags and bags, and rubber gloves. The gloves snapped against his skin as he put them on, and he took a steadying breath.

Reaching down into the small hole he’d made, he tugged on the bag and brushed away the dirt until he found one of the bright yellow drawstrings. He stopped and snapped a couple of pictures with his phone, and then called dispatch to send out a full crime scene unit and extra officers. 

It was going to be fifteen minutes before anyone else would be on the scene. He knew he should wait, but his heart was pounding in his chest as adrenaline started to course through him. He wanted to know what was in the bag, rather desperately, so after a few minutes of casually poking and tugging at the bag, he managed to undo one loop of the drawstring.

Rogers licked his lips and took a deep breath before using his fingers to work the bag open just enough to see inside. He turned on the flashlight on his phone and shined it at the bag, gasping and falling back on his ass when he finally spied what was in it. It was both better and worse than he could have imagined.

He was quite certain he had just found Eloise Gardener.

* * *

Belle keened and grabbed at the sheets as Weaver kissed his way across her bare chest.

Her shirt was somewhere on the floor, along with her panties, and one of his fingers was teasing its way through her slit. She shifted her hips to meet his caress just as his mouth captured one of her nipples. Her face turned into the pillow, muffling her soft little cry. He was always so attentive, so thorough, even when they were fucking against a wall, but just this once she wished he’d just get going and make her come.

One finger slipped inside her wet folds, pushing deep into her pussy, and she ground down on it. He started a slow rhythm, sliding in and out, coming up and over her clit before going back inside. She felt herself getting wetter, as if that was possible, every thrust of his fingers pulling more arousal out of her. Her hand slid in his hair, pulling in frustration, and he added a second finger, his pace speeding up just a little. 

It had been way too long since they had been like this with each other. The two times in her office had been rushed and frantic, with neither of them stopping to consider the outcome. Now, they had both made a conscious choice to acknowledge what was happening. There was something utterly terrifying about that to her, knowing that there would be an after to this moment, that neither of them would be leaving the room or running away.

Weaver crooked his fingers inside her and hit her sweet spot making her gasp. He grinned and kissed her neck, following a familiar path up to her ear. “You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

“Ian,” she gasped. “Need -”

“What do you need, baby?”  
Belle cried out as his thumb pressed to her clit, his fingers working in tandem, thrusting hard inside her.

“Is that it?” he asked, pausing to suck at her earlobe. “Or do you want more? You want my mouth on your sweet cunt? You want to scream and come all over my face?”

Her mouth hung open at his words, the air filled with the wet sounds she was making around his thrusting fingers. He was keeping her right on the edge, letting his filthy words sink into her brain, the pleasure pushing out any possibility of thinking about anything except how badly she wanted everything he was offering.

“Yes,” she managed. “_Yesfuckyes!_”

Weaver gave a huff of laughter, and moved back, pulling his fingers out of her before kissing his way down to her slick mount. She watched him as he settled between her thighs, pressing light kisses to the insides of her thighs and her puffy, wet slit. His hot breath made her shiver and she fought hard not to cry out as he flicked his tongue through her, from her twitching cunt right up to her clit. Her hips lifted, trying to follow his mouth as she fisted the sheets. 

His fingers pressed back inside her soaked entrance as he closed his lips around her clit. He gave a little appreciative hum that seemed to vibrate up her whole body, and she released the sheets to dig her fingers into his hair. Picking up speed, his fingers pressed into the same spot over and over again, relentlessly pushing her up to her peak as his mouth suckled and licked her oversensitive clit. 

“Ian,” she gasped, fighting not to lock her thighs around his head and smother him. “So good -”

She was close to coming, and true to his word, he didn’t let up until a moment later she clamped down on him with a short involuntary cry, tremors rippling through her body. Her eyes squeezed shut, white lights flashing and her heartbeat rushing in her ears. His lips let got of her clit with a wet pop, but his fingers continued to work her through her orgasm, until she sagged boneless against the mattress.

Weaver pulled his fingers free, sitting up to lick them one by one as she watched. She bit her lip and let her legs fall wide open, inviting him to lay between them. He leaned over her and kissed her, letting her taste herself in his mouth like he knew she liked. She was so fucking hot and wet, and he wanted to make her come again with his cock if she was game.

Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him close, and he groaned. It seemed she was more than willing.

“Fuck me,” she said, when he broke the kiss. “Please, baby.”

He sat up and pushed his boxers down, freeing his cock, just as his cell phone started vibrating across the nightstand. Her head turned and she frowned at the phone.

“Leave it,” he said, stroking himself.

She reached for the phone, holding it up. “It’s Rogers.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, wiping his hand on the bed. “I told you to leave it.”

She gave him a look, and he huffed, taking the phone from her and managing to answer it just before it went to voicemail.

“This better be really fucking good, mate.”

They exchanged a look, and Belle licked her lips slowly, her hands trailing down her body to tease him. 

“I’m sorry for whatever I’ve just interrupted,” replied Rogers, and Weaver could hear the cringing in his voice, “but I’ve just found Eloise Gardener. Or what’s left of her.”

Rogers’ response made its way through the fog of sexual frustration in Weaver’s head, and he reached for Belle’s hands, stopping her before she could strum her clit and work herself up again.

“What?” His wide eyes met Belle’s, and she sat up quickly, her face suddenly worried. “Where?”

“That wild goose chase Nick Branson sent you on at that vacant lot? Not so wild after all.” There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the call, and then Rogers added, “You two better get yourselves in order, the Captain wants to see you in an hour.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: In jail, Nick gets a phone call, and Belle goes home to a nasty surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I had this scene in my head and I need to bridge from the office sex back around to the second chapter. From here on out, everything will be in the present day. I think it will be about 4 to 5 more chapters to close up the plot and get everyone on a course to being not completely shitty. For the Writer's Month prompt #28: family.

_Three days ago..._

Nick Branson held the phone handset to his ear and turned his back to the guard.

His hands were cuffed together and attached to a short chain around his waist, limiting his movement. He had to bend awkwardly to get the earbud in his ear, but he managed it, and tucked the rest of the cord into his pocket where the phone was. It really was impressive how prison had an entire economy within it, buying and trading for all the same things that were available on the outside. It had taken three days in county to get a burner phone, and then a note slipped to his lawyer to get the number to his brother.

“Hey little brother,” came Jack’s voice through the small earpiece. “Holding up okay?”

Nick sighed. “I’m good. Are you laying low?”

“For now,” Jack replied, smiling. “But I’ve got a plan.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Nick kept his voice low and used the regular phone to hide the cord from the earbud that dangled from his ear. He kept looking over his shoulder at the guard positioned by the door to make sure the man stayed there. “You hear me?”

Jack huffed. “I got this, bro. It’s fine.”

Nick shook his head. “It had better be. Shit’s bad enough right now, but my lawyer thinks I might be okay if I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want you caught up in this too. Okay?”

Jack smirked. “Yeah, no worries.”

The guard called out that he had one minute left, and Nick ended the call. He tucked the earpiece and cord into his pocket, and then hung up the handset. Shifting things around, he was able to tuck the cellphone far enough down that it wasn’t noticeable, and then let the guard lead him back to his cell.

Jack blew out a long puff of smoke and flicked at the end of his cigarette, sending ash scattering to the ground. He took one last drag, and then tossed the remains towards the corner of the lot, bouncing the butt off the chainlink fence. It landed in a cluster of beleaguered daisies, and he smiled before he turned and walked through the gate.

* * *

Belle opened the door to her apartment building and sighed, hefting the strap of her laptop bag higher on her shoulder. 

It had been two days since she and Ian had fucked in her office, and she had yet to see or hear from him. She pushed the button for the elevator angrily, stabbing it repeatedly until it dinged and lit up. What happened between them was her fault, she accepted that, but he was being a complete prick by avoiding her. If he had come into the office, she would have apologized, probably.

The worst part about all of it was that Weaver was right. As much as he failed to open up to her when they were married, when push came to shove, she was the one who gave up and divorced him. Twice now she’d used him for sex, for a release of tension caused by the case and the awkwardness of their personal relationship, and afterwards, instead of recognizing what she had done, she pushed him away. Of course he was pissed at her.

With an impatient huff, she stepped into the lift, and poked the button for the tenth floor. Her apartment had a great view of the city from across the bay, but all she wanted was some food, a glass of wine, and a hot shower. Maybe after that, she’d text Ian and at least extend the olive branch. Now that they had a name for the other suspect, Jack Branson, Nick’s older brother, it felt like they were so close to wrapping the whole sordid thing up in a neatly fucked up bow. They couldn’t afford to let their personal shit get in the way of justice for the victims. Surely he would agree with that and stick it out with her to the end.

Entering the apartment, she dropped her bag on the sofa and kicked her shoes off, then went around the island into the kitchen. There was lasagna in the fridge in one of those little takeout containers that could be reheated in the oven. Her stomach growled at the thought of it and she crossed to the fridge, yanking the door open to stare inside. 

She took the bag with the lasagna out and the partial bottle of red wine that was in the door bin, shoving it closed with her hip. The wine she set on the counter, and the bag went in the trash as she moved to the oven. In the glass door, there was an odd shadow, and she stopped, blinking as the image came into focus. 

_A man’s reflection._

Belle gasped and spun around just as the man came at her. He caught her arm and yanked hard, making her cry out. The lasagna container in her hand slipped and turned over in mid air as it dropped to the floor. Spinning on her heel, she twisted out of his grip, only for him to come around and catch her with an elbow.

Her head immediately started throbbing and she reached up to hold the right side of her skull. Her fingers came away wet, and she lowered her arm, staring in confusion at the red that coated her palm. 

It was strange, she thought, that it was the second time she found herself standing in a kitchen with blood on her fingers. The first time was when she lost her baby, and their family.

A second later, the man grabbed her from behind, pinning one arm to her side and squeezing her hard enough to make her gasp for air. She lunged forward, stretching out her free arm towards the counter, her fingers flailing desperately for anything to hold on to.

Something flashed in her peripheral vision, and she turned, letting out a ragged cry as he tried to lift her off her feet. Her leg kicked back, catching him in the shin and drawing a sharp hiss. Taking advantage of his imbalance, she threw herself forward, her arm straining for the knife block that sat next to the coffee maker, her fingers just brushing the handle.

A few minutes later, she was alone and panting, fighting to catch her breath. She looked down to see a red puddle spreading around her feet, and the knife clattered to the floor.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team tests a theory on the Branson brothers, with not so great results, and Weaver and Belle find themselves with a new puzzle to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so lame and short, much like the last one. I'm bridging to the later case and story stuff. For the Writers Month prompt #29: height difference.

“They look...weirdly alike.”

Belle tilted her head, eyeing the CCTV screen where they were observing Nick and Jack Branson sitting in holding cells opposite each other. It was Weaver’s idea. Rogers was getting nowhere with either of them in a regular interrogation, so they thought perhaps putting the brothers together would illicit some kind of response. Of course the men knew they were being watched, everything was watched in a prison or a police station, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t give something away.

Weaver exhaled through his nose and frowned. “Yeah, there’s definitely a family resemblance.”

“I didn’t get a good look at Jack when he -” Belle trailed off and shrugged away the flash of memory of Jack’s face in the oven door.

Weaver glanced at her sideways. “You okay with this?”

She turned her head and looked up at him, her flat shoes making their minimal height difference even more apparent. He was so used to her in heels lately that it startled him how small she seemed right now, how easily her fight with Jack could have gone differently.

“Yeah,” she shrugged. Then she leaned towards Weaver, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “When do you think we’ll get the fireworks?”

Just then Rogers opened the door to the room and came in with a cup of coffee. “I don’t think we’re going to get any fireworks,” he said. “Those two have been holding the world’s most boring staring contest for the past forty minutes.”

Weaver huffed again. “We have to give it time. They know there’s cameras everywhere, so let them sit there for so long that they think we can’t possibly be paying that much attention to them.”

Rogers’ raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to stare at these screens for what? Ten, twelve hours?”

Weaver threw Rogers a look. “What? You have plans for the next three days?”

Belle snorted and shook her head. “Maybe we give it until the top of the hour, and then James can take Nick into a room for a bit.”

“You think that Jack will think his brother’s gonna narc on him?” 

Weaver’s expression was dubious, and she rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s better than watching this paint dry that we’re doing now.”

“What if Ian does it?” Rogers asked after a long moment. He glanced back and forth between them, and shrugged.

“I’d love to,” Weaver said, smirking slightly and throwing a quick glare at the CCTV. “But the Captain said I was _banned_ from this building until further notice.”

“And yet, here we are...” Belle commented absently.

She bit her lip and looked back and forth between the two screens, Jack on the left and Nick on the right. They had to break the stalemate and get something. The easy way out for the Branson brothers was to point the finger at each other and get a fucking hung jury, or worse reasonable doubt and a not guilty verdict.

“I think you should do it,” she said finally. “Let’s talk to Graham. It’s about appearances right? We need Jack to see you come in, see that you’re involved, and we need Nick to get a little bit scared.”

“You think he’s the weaker one?” Rogers asked. “Isn’t that a bit of a stereotype? The little brother?”

“Maybe.” She exhaled and folded her arms. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Rogers nodded and pulled out his phone, and a few minutes later Captain Graham Humbert was staring at all of them with narrowed eyes and a frown.

“Well, if all three of you think this is a good idea, I know it must be fucking insane.” Then he sighed. “But I agree, it might be the only way to at least get some kind of..._something,_ out of them.”

Weaver and Rogers exchanged a look, and Belle let her head drop. She hoped this didn’t backfire horribly.

* * *

Weaver hissed as Belle dabbed at his knuckles.

The chill of the antiseptic quickly turned to a stinging pain, and he flexed his hand.

“Stay still,” she muttered, dropping the cotton ball in the trash before she picked up the box of band-aids.

He frowned. “It hurts.”

“Yeah.” She pulled open the band-aid and spread it over the back of his hand where a bloody scrape was still oozing blood, though much slower than it had been, smoothing it out over his skin. He winced slightly as the pressure sent a tiny shock of pain through his hand, and sat back in the chair.

It went without saying that the interrogation backfired. Nick had been calm and collected, and no matter what Weaver did, there was barely more than a raised eyebrow. At the very end, just as he’d given up on getting anything useful, Branson made a comment about what his brother had done to Belle. 

“Ow!” He groused again, nearly pulling his hand away.

“That happens, I believe,” she said, giving Weaver a stern look, “when one punches a fucking wall.”

“Maybe I just wanted you to nurse me back to health.” She rolled her eyes, and he sighed. “You heard what he said. I couldn’t let that go.”

Belle took his hand and bent her head, pressing her lips to the edge of the bandage, softly. “I appreciate you trying to defend me, but that piece of shit isn’t worth it. And now he knows how easy it is to get a rise out of you.”

Weaver blew out a breath. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed,” said Rogers as he moved into the office. He sat on the corner of his desk and gave Weaver a withered look. “That is the last time I listen to either of you.”

Weaver raised his hands and then let them drop, slapping his palms against his thighs. “Fine. But it wasn’t even _my_ idea.”

“I’m aware of that,” Humbert said, fixing Rogers with a glare as he stepped into the doorway. “I trust everyone in this room is done with half-baked ideas to interrogate Nick and or Jack Branson, and that the remaining walls of my station will remain dent free?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rogers mumbled, as Weaver nodded beside him and flexed his injured hand. “Well, the boys are back in their cages, and we are back at square fucking zero.”

“Maybe not,” Humbert said, leaning against the door jam. “We have Eloise Gardner.”

Belle shook her head and made a face. “And a dead woman helps us how?”

Weaver raised his eyebrows at her. “Well, she doesn’t hurt us. Obviously, Nick knew where she was, and probably Jack did too. For all we know, she found out what they were up to and they killed her.”

“Yeah, but she’s clearly been dead for a while,” Rogers said, swallowing hard and trying not to think about what he saw in the garbage bag. “She might have even been dead before they ever started on the others. She could have been their first.”

“But what if she wasn’t?” Humbert asked, his lips curving slightly as he looked between Belle and Weaver. “We don’t know, and we need to find out.”

“What are you saying, Captain?” Weaver asked, leaning back in the chair. “We’re off the case. By your orders.”

“You’re off the _Branson_ case,” he said. “Eloise Gardner is her own case as far as the department is concerned. We don’t know that she’s officially connected, and if she is, in what way.” Belle looked at Weaver at the same time he looked at her, and Captain Humbert cleared his throat. 

“I’ve spoken with Midas,” he continued. “Since we can’t _officially_ prove that Eloise has anything to do with the existing cases, we’ve agreed that you two can look into it.”

Belle let out a short laugh, and glanced at Weaver, who had started to grin. “Right...so?”

Weaver stood up and nudged her shoulder. “So...looks like we’re back on the case.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weaver and Belle attempt to get a start on the case, but feel like they're getting nowhere fast in a lot of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted on Friday the 30th, but alas that didn't happen. Work sucked and I seem to have gotten my daughter's cold. Palmi's is a Korean BBQ place in Seattle (and other areas) in case anyone was wondering. This is where my random food cravings show up in fic. For the Writer's Month prompt #30: pining.

It was two in the afternoon when Belle and Weaver left the station.

They had collected the current case file, such as it was, and decided to head over to Belle’s office. Frustration was best handled by doing what they could to solve the case, or at least get it started. So far the whiteboard consisted of a picture of Eloise and a timeline that had more question marks than anything else. As far as anyone could tell, Eloise Gardner had managed to fly under the radar for her entire existence.

Belle glanced over at Weaver where he was sitting on the sofa, flipping through the brief preliminary report from the medical examiner. He was slouched down with the folder open and sitting on his legs, and she bit her lip. Just a short time ago, they’d fucked on that couch, right where he was sitting. She bit her lip and breathed slowly, trying not to think about how good it felt to have him inside her, and how it would have happened again if Rogers hadn’t called them when he did.

“What?”

She blinked and saw Weaver looking at her, one eyebrow raised. “Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “Just...we basically have _nothing._”

“Less than.” He sighed and sat forward, closing the folder and dropping it on the coffee table. “This prelim report is everything we already know; she’s been dead at least six months or probably more, no obvious signs of trauma, gun shot or stab wounds.”

“And we don’t have any idea who Eloise even _is._” He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his chin which had gotten scruffy with stubble from the last two days. “How does someone have no paper trail in this day and age?”

Belle shook her head, clicking the cap of the dry erase marker she was holding on and off. “Maybe she’s not from here. Maybe we need to expand our search. Oregon, California, Idaho? Check Social Security and IRS records, whatever we have to.”

“She might not even be from the states,” he added absently. “Canada?”

“True,” Belle said, frowning at the board. They’d been making assumptions, and it was possible that had painted them into a corner. “I could call Anna. She still works for that firm in Vancouver, and she might be able to search a few databases for us. Rogers could call his friend in the RCMP.”

He let out another heavy sigh. “Yeah.”

She pushed the cap back on the marker and set it in the tray under the board before crossing the room. “You okay?”

Weaver looked up as Belle dropped down on the sofa beside him. He nodded and gave her a small smile. “Yeah, just realized that I didn’t know what day it was for a second there.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Saturday, right?”

He nodded again, his lips curving slightly. “Be honest, you had to look at your phone to be sure.”

“Lately, yeah,” she admitted, running her hand through her hair. “S’all bleeding together.”

“Are _you_ okay?”

She turned her head and looked at him. “Yeah, why?” He shrugged, his eyes meeting hers, and she swallowed. “I’m better now that we have something to figure out.”

“Something to focus on that’s not...”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Belle nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Weaver frowned. “For what?”

“For all the stuff that’s happened.” She sighed and picked at a fingernail with her thumb. “Between us.”

“Hey,” he said, softly, reaching over to take her hand. “Don’t -”

She shook her head again. “No. No, Ian, I meant it. I shouldn’t have -” She squeezed his hand and let it rest on her knee, but her eyes were fixed on the file folder on the table, and on the edge of the case label that was just a little bit crooked. “I didn’t mean for things to get so messy. Or to push you away - after. You were right that - that I keep doing that, that I have done that.”

“Belle...”

She sniffed and wiped her free hand over her cheek, surprised when it came away wet, and then rubbed it on her jeans. “I, um, I thought - I thought I was protecting myself.”

“You were,” he insisted. “You -”

“No.” She gave him a quick glance, her chest tightening when she saw the pain and concern in his features. “No, I was - I was hurting you. On purpose, maybe, I don’t know, but it was wrong. I was wrong to take advantage of you.”

“Hey.” He pulled his hand away from hers and raised his arm to put it around her shoulders. “It’s okay. You weren’t taking advantage of anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” she managed, her tears falling faster. “I was - I was going to text you that night. Thursday, I mean.”

That was the night Jack attacked her.

Weaver swallowed hard, and then blew out a breath. “Palmi’s?” She lifted her head and blinked at him. “Split a beef combo?”

“With kimchi stew?” Her eyebrows lifted and she started to smile. Her skin felt tight where tears had dried on her skin, and she rubbed at her eye. “You can have all the short ribs.”

His eyes narrowed for a second. “Deal.”

She giggled and sat up, stretching her arms. “I’m going to need to do some wash, or grab more clothes.”

Weaver pushed to his feet. “We can call in our order, swing by your place, and then pick it up before we head home?”

Belle bit her lip and nodded. He’d called his apartment home, which made sense for him. The funny thing was that was the first place that popped into her head at the mention of that word, home. It was an exposed brick wall and dark kitchen cabinets, a hundred year old wood floor and a zig zag of pipes on the ceiling. 

She wasn’t sure that had anything to do with what had happened on Thursday.

* * *

After dinner, they settled on the sofa.

Belle sighed as she felt her body sink into the soft leather, and pulled up the throw blanket that lay at one end. They kept the conversation light after they left her office, both of them needing to disengage from the case and the events of the last few days. 

“So, Tiana’s engaged?” Weaver said as he came around the end of the sofa with a beer bottle in his hand.

She let out a short laugh. “Yeah, to Drew.”

His eyes widened and he leaned forward to set the bottle down on the coffee table. “Drew the chef? I thought she dumped him ages ago?”

“The wannabe chef,” she corrected with a smirk. “I don’t know. They were off and on for the longest time, and then they were off-off.” She rolled her eyes and reached over, stealing a sip from his beer.

“Oi!” He snatched the bottle from her with a half-hearted glare. “Thief.”

She smiled at him. “Arrest me.”

The look he gave her was heated, and she felt a flush wash over her body. “Anyway,” she continued, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket as he turned on the TV. “They met at a restaurant opening a few months back, and now...”

Weaver shook his head. “She can do so much better.”

“She said that about you, you know.” Belle glanced sideways at him, her lips twitching.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, flipping through two more channels before pausing on a recap of the days football matches. “She was right.”

Belle’s foot nudged at his thigh, and he looked down at it before flicking his gaze up to meet her eyes. “Shut up,” she admonished, poking him with her toes a second time.

He tsked and shook his head slowly. “Theft and now assaulting a police officer. Racking up quite a rap sheet there, Ms. French.”

She giggled and shifted the way she was sitting, moving her feet to the other side so she could sit closer to him. He flipped a few more channels before stopping on a movie they’d both seen more times than they could count. It was already twenty minutes in, but it was safe, and she thought they both probably needed safe right now. The news was, well, the news. They lived with most of the nightly local headlines, and the national and global stuff had become too depressing.

Towards the end of the movie, Belle found her body leaning, drifting and heavy with fatigue, until her head was resting on Weaver’s shoulder. He braced for a second, and then relaxed, bringing his arm up around her to pull her against his side.

The more she kept saying she wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t keep taking advantage of him, the more she seemed to keep doing it. 

“Is this okay?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the television. 

“Yeah.” 

His reply was soft, and then she felt the light pressure of his lips on the top of her head. She exhaled, resisting the urge to curl against him and watched as the movie came to its end, the camera pulling back on a view of the city as the credits began to scroll up the screen.

“I can’t keep staying here.”

Weaver shifted slightly. “Why not?”

She sighed and smiled sadly. “You know why...”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Where will you go then? Back to your apartment?”

She swallowed and sniffed. “I don’t think I can. I know Leroy will do a good job, but...”

“No one would blame you.” His arm tightened around her, squeezing her against him.

She pushed herself up, and his hand slipped down her shoulder. “My lease is up at the end of the year. I was thinking about looking for another place anyway.”

“You can stay here as long as you like,” he said, pulling back and twisting to sit sideways with his arm on the back of the sofa. “I can fix up the other room again, and sleep in there.”

Belle looked down at the blanket for a moment. The room would need a bit of work, and some furniture. The guest bed had been taken out as a start to the process of turning the room into a nursery. She wondered if he’d ever done anything with the paint they bought, a light, springy green called Sweet Honeydew. It would have worked for a boy or girl, she thought. 

“Yeah.” She pulled the blanket off her lap before she stood up. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna go shower.”

“Okay...” came Weaver’s voice as she crossed the room. It sounded like he wanted to say something else, but she closed the bathroom door behind her before he could.

She turned on the water, pushing the dial halfway over to hot until steam started to fill the space, fogging up the glass. The heat felt good, almost blissful, and she let her head drop as the water pelted her neck and shoulders. A few tears fell, as they always did, and she wiped at her eyes before turning her face into the water. It was easier to let things out when she was shut away from the world. And from Ian.

He had been wonderful the past couple of days, but she still felt the pressure of expectations, of their history just as she had for all the weeks before. She couldn’t keep staying here, not much longer, not with Ian being so accommodating and...helpful. Her only option was nowhere, it seemed. She yawned as she turned to wash the shampoo out of her hair, working out the suds with her hands. It was going to be another early night for her, though she wondered if she’d be able to sleep all that well without Ian. At some point she would need to, anyway.

Belle finished up in the shower and slipped out in a towel, flashing Weaver an awkward smile as she hurried into the bedroom to retrieve something to wear to bed. After she changed, she came out of the room, squeezing her hair with the towel. Weaver was standing in the kitchen, and the television was turned back to the football recap. She glanced from the screen to him, and gave him a small smile when he shrugged.

“Tea?” he asked as he poured hot water into a mug.

“So late?” She lowered the towel.

He lowered the teabag, his mouth curved in a half smile. “It started raining and I just felt like something warm.”

She shook her head, her damp hair swinging and flicking little drops of water over the floor. “Thanks, but I think I’m just gonna go to bed.”

He picked up the mug and came around the island, cupping the warm ceramic in his palm. “You going to be okay?”

She wiped a drip of water off her forehead and shrugged. “At some point I’m going to have to be, right?”

She took the towel into the bathroom, dropping it in the hamper, and when she came out, Weaver was back on the sofa, his socked feet propped on the coffee table, sipping his tea. She bit her lip at the cozy picture he made, wanting so badly to just plop down beside him again until they both fell asleep. Instead, she pushed her hair back and moved to the bedroom door.

“Night.”

He looked up from his mug and gave her a soft, crooked smile. “Goodnight, Belle.”

* * *

An hour later, Weaver gave up and turned off the television.

He knew Belle was holding back, putting on a brave face so he wouldn’t worry about her so much. At least they had something to work on now, something to distract them from everything else that had happened. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing yet. They’d proven they could work well together, for the most part, but in the long run what he wanted and what Belle wanted could still be two different things.

Sighing, he pushed up off the sofa and took the remains of his tea, now long cold, into the kitchen before heading to the bathroom to shower. After, he put on clean underwear and a shirt, and spread the throw blanket out over the cushions. He straightened and dropped a pillow down at one end, his gaze drifting to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely shut, just close enough to block out the light from the living room.

He eased the door open and looked inside. Belle was on her side, facing the nightstand. She looked to be sleeping soundly, but just in case he left the door open a little further. If she had another nightmare, he’d be able to hear her easier. He took a step, and she called out to him in a quiet voice.

“You can stay,” she said, rolling over. “If - if you want.”

His smile was flat. “I don’t think it’s up to me.”

“Yeah.” She tucked her hands under her chin, holding the sheet and blanket. “Sorry.”

“Belle...” He sighed, watching as she rubbed at her face with her covered hands, then shook his head as he turned to leave. “Night.”

“Please?”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, waiting until she said his name, and then eased the door closed all the way. He went around to his side of the bed and climbed in, settling back against the pillow. A moment later, Belle inched closer, reaching for him and laying her arm over his chest. 

“This okay?”

He breathed out and closed his eyes. It was always okay, no matter how much it hurt, or how confused everything got. “Yeah.”

Their breathing evened out, her chest pushing against his side at the same time he inhaled. The rain pattered lightly against the window, a soothing white noise as sleep overcame them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weaver and Belle's frustration with the case and their feelings reaches a tipping point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two things. 1. Please don't hate me. 2. I'm sorry this took so fucking long to get done. Work has been...special, and my health has been shitty. The next chapter is already 50% done so hopefully it won't be long before I can post more.

The days had become routine.

They worked in Belle’s office during the day, struggling to piece together the identity and history of a woman who seemed not to exist, and to find who killed her and buried her in a vacant lot. The latter they were certain they already knew, though it was hard to tie either Branson brother to Eloise Gardener in spite of the gut feeling everyone had and the fact that Nick had all but lead them to the body. They had reached out to every agency they could think of, and spent a dusty afternoon at the county records office. It was frustrating to know a connection was there, but not be able to prove it.

All that, combined with their current living situation, had put Weaver on a tenuous edge. Belle was sleeping better, and had only had one short lived nightmare. She seemed to be moving past what happened, though she had not gone back to her apartment for longer than it took to collect more clothes or personal items. Weaver’s apartment was full of them now. Her suitcase was a near permanent fixture in the bedroom, and several of her suits were hanging in the closet.

Every day for the last two weeks, they worked together and went home together. Together, except not; not in the way he wanted them to be. A couple of nights he slept on the sofa, but most of the time he lay next to her, in the bed that used to be theirs, torn between wanting to be there for her in whatever way she needed and wanting to demand answers as to where he stood.

Weaver sighed as he pulled open the door to the apartment, the rolling of the metal loud in the corridor. He wanted to sink into the sofa with a glass of scotch and zone out to whatever was on TV, alone with his thoughts. But there was Belle, following him inside, and while he was more than happy to have her there, he couldn’t think about things with her so close.

“Hungry?” she asked as he slid the door closed and flipped the lock. “There’s leftover fried rice, and some chicken from last night.”

“Whatever’s fine,” he muttered, dropping his leather jacket over the back of a bar stool. 

She shrugged and went around the island on her way to the fridge, pulling it open to peek inside. “You can have first pick, I don’t care.”

“Just...whatever you want, okay?” He huffed and ran a hand through his hair. Space and time was what he needed, but it was in short supply. “I’m gonna shower.”

Belle frowned at his back as he cut across the living room and then shut the bathroom door hard. She startled a bit at the sound, almost dropping the takeout container as she pulled it out of the fridge. Catching it with her other hand, she sighed and set it on the counter, pausing to lean over it. Something was wrong with Weaver, but she didn’t know what. 

They’d both expressed a feeling of irritation at not being able to progress the case, or solve the riddle of the identity of Ms. Gardener. She’d vented it earlier in the afternoon rather childishly, flinging a dry erase marker in his direction after he made a snide remark, but that was hardly the kind of thing that would make him upset enough to want to be away from her. 

She popped the container in the microwave, and blew out a breath. The sound of the water running in the shower mixed with the hum of her dinner reheating, and she zoned out for a minute, startling again when the beep sounded out. She shook her head and pulled the container out carefully, blowing across the top before she set it down. Normally she loved leftover fried rice, especially the good stuff from Chen’s, but her appetite was nil now that she’d started over analyzing Weaver’s mood. With a sigh, she slid onto one of the bar stools and poke at the rice with a fork halfheartedly.

Weaver rubbed the towel over his hair, avoiding giving his reflection more than a passing glance in the mirror. He’d started to feel so much older in the last couple of years, his hair far more gray than brown now, and the lines around his eyes less from laughter and more from the weight of everything. 

The shower had been as hot as he could stand, but he didn’t feel any better. He did feel resolved to confront the situation with Belle, however, but he wasn’t sure when or how. Not talking, not addressing his concerns and feelings had done him no favors in their marriage, and it had caused nothing but turmoil in the last few weeks. His neck was stiff from all the tension he was holding in his body, from every time he forced himself away from her in an effort to remain suitably distant. 

Dropping the towel in the hamper, he nearly walked out into the apartment stark naked, before catching himself and retrieving it to wrap around his waist. Belle was sitting at the counter when he came out of the bathroom, and he paused for a long moment to watch her idly picking at her food. Her shoulders were slumped, her head was propped on her hand, and her whole body seemed so...defeated.

Closing his eyes, he resisted the urge to cross the space and start rubbing at her shoulders, her neck, to offer her whatever comfort he could because it pained him to see her like this. Instead, he hurried into the bedroom and put on fresh clothes.

Belle turned around as Weaver came out of the bedroom, and gave him a small smile. He was wearing a soft black t-shirt and his favorite jeans, the ones he couldn’t wear to work anymore, or really anywhere outside of the apartment. The cuffs were frayed, a seem pulled across the left knee, and a hole in one of the back pockets. He looked so comfortable, and she bit her lip as she looked away, sliding off the bar stool to dispose of what was left of her dinner.

He moved around the other end of the island and pulled open the door to the fridge with a loud exhale.

“Hey,” she said tentatively. “Feeling better?”

Weaver sighed and removed a small tupperware of deli meat from the fridge, setting on the counter to the side. He kept his back to Belle as she proceeded to ask him if he was hungry, if she could help. She was rambling, a usually endearing trait that happened when she was nervous, but he was already on edge and in danger of snapping at her.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, fumbling in the drawer for a butter knife.

“Hey.” She came around to stand near him, one hand on her hip. “Would you at least look at me?”

He huffed and turned around, his eyebrows lifted in annoyance.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’ve been weird since we left the office.”

He swallowed and ran a hand through his damp hair, reluctant to have this conversation now, despite its necessity in the long run. “I’m not - I’m...” He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Ian...” He could hear the irritation in her voice, and his jaw clenched. “Talk to me. Is it the case? Is it Rogers?”

It was all happening against his will and his better judgement. “No, it’s not - just - just leave it alone.”

Belle bit her lip and stepped closer. “Is it - is it me?”

He shook his head and moved away as she reached for him. “You have to decide,” he managed, his throat suddenly tight. “You have to decide what you want, Belle.”

She blinked and frowned at him, feeling like she’d missed a whole other part of the conversation. “What?”

“I can’t keep doing this.” He sighed as her fingertips brushed his arm, fighting the urge to take her hand. “Not - not every night. Not after everything.”

She pulled back her hand, confusion giving way to surprise, tinged with anger. “So, two weeks ago I could stay here as long as I liked, and now you want me to go?”

Weaver turned, and she drew away from him, her arms folding over her middle. “No - no that’s not - that’s not what I’m saying.” 

He sighed and leaned back against the counter. His thoughts were too jumbled to come out properly, and seeing the way her face fell pulled at emotions that were too raw. He didn’t want her to go, ever, but he needed answers, even if that made her leave in the end. Maybe it was better if she did.

“Belle,” he continued, “I - I would hold you every night. For the rest of my life if you’d let me. But not like this, not when I don’t know how you feel, or where we stand.”

She let out a humorless laugh and looked away, her eyes settling on the clock on the oven for a moment. It was strange to have her words repeated back to her, especially after so much time. It had been in a moment almost exactly like this, a quiet, rainless night after weeks of uncertainty.

“I think I said that to you once,” she said softly. “About two years and eight months ago.”

Weaver rolled his eyes. Somehow he’d know it would go this way. It always did. “Oh, here we go,” he lamented. “Yeah, turn it around on me.”

Belle whirled on him. “I am _not_ turning it around on you! You weren’t there!”

His eyes went wide. “What? _You_ were the one who left. One last shag and then you packed your things!”

Her mouth flattened as she glared at him. “I _asked_ you _not_ to go that night. I - I needed you!”

He blew out a breath and put some distance between them, moving to the far side of the island. “There was a bloody body at pier five! What the hell was I supposed to do?”

Belle’s eyelids closed for a moment, and she shook her head. His bitter mood was making her angry, and she could feel a sharp pain in her chest as old wounds reopened themselves. Her face felt hot and her skin itched. She swore she could feel something on the inside of her leg, and she feared that if she looked down she’d see blood again, trickling down her leg, puddling menacingly on the floor.

“Last I _checked_,” she snapped, “James Rogers, was not only a decorated detective, but also a grown ass adult who can probably handle yet another dead body washing up on a pier!”

“I was on call!”

Her teeth clenched as she stalked towards him. “You. Weren’t. _There!_” 

Her palm swatted at his arm on the last word, hitting him hard. He hissed in pain and stepped away from her, but she didn’t care. The trousers she’d worn to work, her underwear, her blouse, all felt sticky and wet to her, stained red in her memory. She blinked and her eyes stung as tears spilled over her cheeks. 

“I lost _our baby!_” She screamed. “And you weren’t there!”

He couldn’t do this. She was angrier than he’d ever seen, her eyes wild and her face flushed, hair sticking to her face where it was wet. His body physically hurt, head to toe, as he forced himself to back away and not reach for her like he wanted to. He wished he could hold her and make it all go away, take back all the bad decisions and wrong choices, but they would probably have ended up here anyway. He turned and snatched his jacket off the back of the bar stool, flipping it around as he moved, and shoving his arms in the sleeves.

Belle swiped her hands over her face and followed him as he moved towards the door. “What are you doing?”

He paused and looked back at her, his voice resigned. “Leaving.”

She scoffed, her arm rising and falling, letting her palm slap against her thigh. “Right, of course you are. Running away when shit gets hard.”

Weaver’s mouth opened, ready with a biting retort, but then he sagged and pressed his lips together. “Yeah, whatever.”

He stopped, facing away from her, and she made herself stay put, resisting the desire to fling something at him. This was how it had gone before. She pushed, he pulled, and when things got bad he shut down and ran.

She crossed her arms, watching as he picked up his wallet and keys from the table by the door. “Just like your father after all. Things get tough, and you cut corners, you bend the rules, and you run away!”

He turned slowly, his face twisted in a mix of pain and rage like she’d never seen, not even when he hauled off and punched Nick Branson in the face. His eyes were bright, shining and dark, and she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, as he yanked the door to the apartment open.

“Fuck...” she breathed, scrambling to close the distance between them. “Ian, no, please! I'm sorry I didn't mean that.”

Weaver stopped, his gaze turning dark as he flashed his teeth at her. “Oh, I think you did.”

The harsh slam of the door echoed off the high ceilings, and Belle startled. She stumbled back, her hand going out to catch herself and finding the back of the sofa. A gasping sob slipped out from between her fingers as she pressed her hand to her lips, her body shaking. The last few minutes had been like a terrible nightmare, one she’d had often after their divorce, but somehow the reality of it was so much worse. A strange cry escaped her as she made her way around the couch, all but collapsing onto it, her head in her hands and her palms wet with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SAID DON'T HATE ME.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time apart, brings clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for more talk of the miscarriage. I'm surprised at the low levels of hate I got on that last chapter. I thought there might be a bit more venom, but I had also hoped it was obvious that Weaver wouldn't be leaving for long. I hope this soothes all the wounds as we set up our pair for the homestretch and some surprising revelations.

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, Weaver knew he had fucked up.

By the time he stepped out into the cool fall air and lightly falling rain, he also knew he deserved every one of Belle’s cutting remarks. In the moment it had been hard to stop the same old things from happening, to keep from pushing and pushing until they both said things they’d regret. Of course he’d stormed out of his own apartment like a jackass, and even though he wanted to go back up immediately, he needed to clear his head and figure out what to say before he did. 

He flipped up the collar of his jacket and shoved his hands in the pockets, heading north towards the convenience store that was two blocks away. It was a walk he made often. When his mind couldn’t let go of a case, he would make his way down to the store, a short list of grocery items in his hand; milk, bread, or the chocolate chip cookies he’d become a little too partial to. The distance there and back was long enough to unwind his brain and either let him see the connections he was missing, or helped him to relax and let it go until tomorrow.

Sighing, he waited at the corner, watching the traffic pass, the tires squelching against the wet asphalt. He hoped Belle was all right. That was truly his greatest worry, that his leaving wouldn’t just upset her, but that it might send her into some kind of fit, like what she’d had when they returned to her apartment. He didn’t know what went on in her nightmares or in the moments where she would stare off into space, only to startled herself back to reality. 

She didn’t think he noticed as much as he did, so he chose not to interrogate her, the same as he’d done after the miscarriage. He realized now, entirely too late, that method had probably made things worse. What had happened recently wasn’t healthy for either of them and was likely making it all worse. She didn’t love him. He’d resigned himself to that fact, in spite of the attraction that still simmered between them.

A sign glowed up ahead, MINI MART in large red letters cutting into the darkness, and the rain started falling faster. Weaver pushed inside the store, and headed for the counter.

“Evening, Detective.”

The man behind the counter smiled at him, and Weaver gave him a short nod. “Pack of Parliaments, please, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted as he reached up to retrieve a pack from the slots above him. He set it down and then slid it forward across the counter before stepping to the side to ring up the purchase.

Weaver tossed a cheap Bic lighter on the counter as well, and then pulled out his wallet. The math had been familiar once upon a time, the cost of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at your average convenience store or gas station.

“8.50,” Sam said, waiting as a ten dollar bill was laid down. He dropped the change in Weaver’s hand, and frowned as he walked out the door.

Outside, the rain was more insistent. Weaver peeled the plastic off the outside of the pack and dropped it in the trash can on the corner. He stared at the rows of cigarettes in the slim, white box, and exhaled. It had been over ten years since he’d quit smoking, replacing the periodic smoke break with scotch at the end of the day, but old habits were too easy to fall back into lately.

He pulled one out, stuffing the rest of the pack deep in his pocket, and set it between his lips. The lighters were even cheaper and more finicky than he remembered, and that combined with the fat, steady drops hitting him, made it take several flicks before the flame sprang up. He could feel the heat of it on his thumb, almost searing with how close it was. The wind made it wobble, and then abruptly snuffed it out, and he sighed. Perhaps it was a sign.

“Hey, buddy, you got one of those for a man who served his country and then got the shaft?”

Weaver turned, frowning, and saw a man in a long green coat, military style, sitting on a bench. The jacket was not unlike the one he’d picked up at the surplus store ages ago. The man looked mildly disheveled and dirty, like he’d slept in his clothes one too many nights, and Weaver assumed he probably had, likely on that very bench or in one of the many alleyways. His face was thin, and his beard and hair ragged. The city had done a lot recently to try to help the homeless population, but it was clearly not enough.

“Sure,” Weaver said, giving the man a crooked smile. “Take the whole fucking pack, mate.”

He tossed the cigarettes at the man, who caught it one handed, followed swiftly by the lighter.

“You for real?” The man looked at his hands and then up at Weaver.

Weaver shrugged. “Yeah. I quit too long ago to start up again.”

The man nodded and lit up, sending a curling stream of smoke into the wet air. “I hear ya, but a man’s gotta have something to get him through his troubles, right? Good brew, good smoke, or a good woman.”

Weaver looked away, and then reach inside his coat to pull out one of his contact cards. “Hey, you know the diner over on 15th? Granny’s?”

The man eyed the card as he held it out. “Yeah?”

“Take this and give it to the waitress with the red streak in her hair. She’ll make sure you get a good meal.”

The man took his card carefully, holding it up as he took another puff of the cigarette. “Detective Weaver.” He looked up and shoved the card in his breast pocket. “I appreciate that, but as you can see I am a bit down on my luck at the moment. Left my wallet on the bus.”

Weaver let out a short laugh. “I know that feeling.” He pulled out his wallet again and took out his last bill, handing it to the man. “The meal’s on the house with my card, but there’s a place just down from the diner, across Lake Street. It’s not great, but this’ll get you a room for a few hours, get you out of the rain. Take care of yourself.”

He turned to leave as the man blinked at him, calling out, “Thanks, Detective.”

Weaver raise his hand, waving the man off as he stalked back down the street. He was starting to feel damp, and there was a tightness in his chest again. Fucking good deeds. He’d never done much of that before Belle. He wouldn’t have chased the man off, but he wouldn’t have given him the time of day either. 

The walk back to his building was faster than the walk to the mini mart, but not just because of the increasing rain. He hadn’t really decided anything except that he wanted to be home, with Belle, whatever that was for now. He’d have to apologize, but she wasn’t wrong. His father’s influence plagued him even now, decades after leaving Glasgow and a grave behind. He wiped a rough hand over his face, and shook his head. She was right. As soon as things had become difficult, he looked for the corner to cut. It was how he’d come close to nearly drowning a man in a warehouse, and how he’d walked away from the best thing in his life.

The miscarriage hadn’t been the start of anything, only the culmination of the pile of fuck ups that his life had always been. The worst was that Belle was still carrying it with her, even almost three years later. The circumstances of it hadn’t helped, and overall it had clearly been more traumatic that he’d ever understood. It triggered the end of their marriage, and he was sure that had only contributed to her dwelling on the event. 

All because they’d both been too afraid to talk about what they were thinking and feeling.

Shaking his head again, he punched in the code for the outside door and yanked it open as it buzzed.

* * *

Bell’s tears dried on her cheeks as she lay curled up on the sofa.

Eventually, she made herself get up and go to the bathroom where she stripped off her clothes and stood in the hot spray of the shower. The steam curled up around her as she drew her finger down the glass, clearing it momentarily and watching as it fogged over again. She could still see the line, the smudge of her skin left behind on the glass, just as she could still see Jack’s blood in her kitchen when she closed her eyes.

Turning, she tipped her face up into the water, letting it run over her head and soothe the steady ache in her temples. Surprisingly, she wasn’t worried about where Ian had gone. He often went for walks when a case was bothering him. Sometimes she’d go along, the two of them strolling quietly arm in arm for a few blocks, listening to the city around them, before turning and heading back home.

This was still his apartment, and it was unlikely that he’d stay away all night. After he returned, she needed to apologize, and it didn’t matter how late that was. She doubted she’d sleep much without him around anyway. Bringing up his father had been a low blow, something she’d never ever done before, not even during their worst fights. Everything she’d heard of the man was despicable, and to throw that in Weaver’s face, especially when she suspected he was just as vulnerable as she, was unfair.

She scrubbed her face and washed her hair before turning around to let the water beat on her neck and back. Her head was still pounding, but that always happened after she was upset, and it was nothing that a little aspirin wouldn’t cure.

Her mind drifted back to the moment in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. Ian had said he loved her, and she’d been so ready to say it back, as soon as she caught her breath, when Rogers called. Since then she’d been holding it in, thinking that somehow it would be better if he went on thinking she didn’t feel the same, that it would make it easier to go back to their separate lives when all this was over.

She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for them to be together again. Despite their best intentions, things between them only ever seemed to get worse. If they tried again only to fall apart once more, she wasn’t sure she could come back from that, not after - everything. 

More and more she had been thinking it might be a good idea to talk to someone about what had happened to her, both the attack and the miscarriage. She didn’t have perspective on any of it, and how could she when they were things that happened to her? The logical part of her brain said to stop dwelling on it, to let it go, but that was obviously easier said than done. She’d tried, so many times, and at one point she was convinced she’d finally moved beyond it, only to have the stupidest thing bring it back.

Maybe it was the fact that she blamed the miscarriage for ruining her marriage, and as a by product, herself. Again, logic insisted that was silly. Yet here she was, standing in the water as it slowly turned cold.

She shivered and reached for the faucet.

* * *

Belle was back on the sofa, a movie she’d seen at least ten times playing on the TV, in her soft flannel pajama pants and a tank top, when Weaver came home. She heard the click of the lock before the door slid open, and twisted in her seat.

Weaver seemed almost surprised to see her, but he gave her a flat smile and a shrug.

She pushed herself up, goosebumps rising up on her bare arms. “I'm sorry.” She waited until he turned back to her, having draped his leather jacket over one of the bar stools. “I - I didn't mean it,” she continued. “I swear, Ian, I - I didn’t.”

He shook his head and took a step forward. “No, you did. And you were right.”

“_No,_” she insisted. “I'm not.” He frowned slightly, and she noticed his hair looked slightly damp from the rain. “Where did you go?”

“Down the block to the corner store,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I bought a pack of Parliaments, stepped outside, realized I hadn't smoked in a fucking decade, and I really didn't want to start up again.” She seemed startled by that, and he sighed. “So I gave the pack, one of my cards, and my last twenty to a homeless Vet, and sent him to Granny’s.”

Belle’s head tilted. “Ruby still work there?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking another cautious step forward. She hadn’t moved from her spot by the sofa, though she had obviously showered and changed. Perhaps she hadn’t felt as bad about his leaving as he’d feared, which only solidified her lack of feeling for him in his mind. 

“I told him to give my card to the woman with a red streak in her hair and she'd make sure he ate well.” He gave her a half smile and shrugged.

“See?” She smiled back at him even as tears sprang to her eyes. “You _are_ better than your father. You're a good man, Ian.”

He looked down at his boots. “Sometimes.”

“No.” Her strong voice, made him look up. “All the time. You're not - “

He shook his head again. “No, I am. A lot more than I ever wanted to admit. Shit gets hard and I...” 

He sighed and swallowed.

“Ian...”

“You pushed me away,” he managed, somehow finding his voice even though his throat felt dry and tight. “After...”

She nodded, her lips pressed tight as her arms folded around her torso. “I know.”

“I didn't know what to do.” He let his right arm rise and fall, palm slapping against his thigh. “Or what you wanted me to do.”

“Why?” Belle sniffed loudly and wiped at her eyes. Her lip wobbled and she touched her fingertips to it, fighting to hold back the anguished noise on the back of her tongue. “Why did you let me? Why didn't you fight for us?”

He exhaled heavily, his eyes closing for a moment. “I know how to fight for what I want when it's work,” he admitted, the realization like a lead weight in his gut. “When it's a case, or a warrant, or a theory. But not - not when what I want is you.”

She came closer, drawn in by the raw emotion in his voice, until only the width of the sofa separated them. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I didn't know what to do either. I _knew_ something was wrong. I _knew_ and I should have...”

Her body swayed, and Weaver moved quickly, catching her by her arms so she wouldn’t fall to the floor. Her hands came up, but she didn’t fight him, just pressed her hands to his chest, her eyes fixed on the sliver of exposed skin where his shirt opened at the neck.

“I should have...” She cut off her own words with a ragged sob and curled her hands into fists.

“Belle, no,” he said, trying to pull her to him. “No, please, sweetheart. Come on, let's sit. Let's just calm down.”

She reeled and pushed hard against him, trying to shove him away, but there wasn't enough strength left in her arms. 

“I don't want to calm down!” One hand pulled back and came down on his chest in a feeble thump. “I want to be angry! I want to scream!” 

Her body shook again and her eyes squeezed shut as she let out the most tortured noise he’d ever heard. His heart nearly broke at the sound of it, and he let her fall against him, his arms coming up around her to hold her tight as she buried her face and yelled into his shirt.

“You be angry then,” he said, squeezing her gently. Her breath was hot through the fabric, and he could feel the faint wetness of her tears, almost the same as the rain outside. “Be whatever you need to be.”

Belle’s face turned to the side and one hand opened against him, her palm pressed over his heart where it was pounding in his chest. “You weren't there...”

“I know.” He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on top of her head. He wasn't there when she needed him, and it would be his greatest regret. “I'm so sorry, Belle. You're right, I should have been there.”

After a minute, he guided her towards the sofa, and they sat down, side by side. His arm stayed around her shoulders, and she twisted sideways to curl against him. She seemed so small and fragile to him, so diminished from her usual fiery self.

"We were so happy," she said. "And then - then everything fell apart, and I couldn't stop it. It was like you put a wall up between us. I thought maybe you hated me."

Weaver pulled back as she sniffled into his shirt. "What? No. Why?"

She glanced up briefly. "Because of the miscarriage?"

His eyes went wide. "No! No, _never,_ Belle, never. I could never ever be mad at you for that, okay?"

She breathed out and in, relief flooding her as she let his words sink in. "I didn't know that then. I didn't know what else had changed other than that."

He sighed and pulled her close, rubbing his hand up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It felt good to be letting out the insecurities and uncertainties he'd been mulling over in his head for years.

"I thought you wanted space. I thought you'd tell me what you needed, what you wanted me to do. I didn't know how to handle any of it. It was like - like I'd lost some part of you too."

Her head moved, shaking no against him. "I didn't want space. But I didn't understand how it might feel for you." 

She closed her eyes and relaxed into the steady stroke of his palm. It had never dawned on her that he felt the loss of their baby as keenly as she did. It wasn't fair to assume he could have just moved on as well.

"I felt like it just happened to me. I didn't think..."

"We both didn't." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and breathed in the light scent of her shampoo. "It was easier to focus on work, on things I could control. I thought it would all pass and then we'd be fine."

"Like it never happened?"

"No, not like that." His hand moved around to her side and hitched her closer, until she was practically sitting across his lap. She came willingly, her face pushing into the warm crease of his neck. 

"I didn't want to forget that it happened. I just...I didn't want to see you hurting anymore," he said. "I thought maybe me being around was making it worse. We kept fighting over stupid shit."

She looked up at him with puffy, red rimmed eyes. "That was mostly my fault."

"Stop. Okay?" His gaze and voice were soft. "Just...nothing is anyone's fault anymore."

"It was," she insisted. "And I didn't realize that it would make you think I didn't want you around. I needed you and I pushed you away..."

"I should have asked why you left, but I just..." He exhaled and tried not to think of his father. "I gave up. I don't believe you can make anyone stay in a relationship, I learned that the hard way with Milah."

"Yeah."

The mention of his ex-wife stung. His shit of a father and his awful ex; how many more terrible memories could she dredge up and throw in his face?

"I wanted you to be happy. I thought if being rid of me did that, then okay, I would give you that, and I wouldn't fight it."

She shifted, freeing her arms enough to wrap one around him and lay the other over his shoulder. She needed to hold him as much as she needed to be held. She needed him to know that it was okay, that she didn't blame him either. 

"_God,_ I fucked everything up."

His lips twitched. "I think I contributed a solid sixty percent."

She pulled back just enough to give him a look. "So this is a group project now?"

"Explains why everyone is miserable."

Unable to help herself, she let out a snort into his chest, and bit her lip as she smiled up at him. "It's not all bad."

"No?" His look was almost incredulous. "We have six dead bodies, two serial murderers, and zero actionable leads."

"I meant with _us,_" she clarified. Her lips quirked slightly at him. "But thanks for the depressing recap, Detective Maudlin."

He rolled his eyes and muttered a sorry, grateful for the break in the tension. “Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah," she admitted, sliding off of his lap and pushing to her feet. "Sorry, I guess I had kinda saved all that up."

Both of his eyebrows lifted as he stood. "Apparently..."

She gave him a look and shook her head, more at herself than anything. "I'm sorry I hit you. Before."

"Don't worry about it." He smiled crookedly and rubbed at the middle of his chest. "I'm tougher than I look." Belle smiled and looked away, and he reached for her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Do you...want to talk about anything else?”

Belle sighed and raised her hand, pulling his hand off her shoulder as she turned. “No. I just - really want to go to bed.”

Her hand slipped into his, and he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles as he exhaled. Another night sharing a bed with Belle probably wouldn’t kill him. “Okay.”

“And, um...” She took a breath and squeezed his hand. “I love you.” Weaver blinked at her, and she shrugged, giving him a soft, half smile. “I never stopped, Ian. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

He felt the air rush out of him as her hand moved up his chest. She looked tired and worn out, but her red tinged eyes were still the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He felt all the tension draining out of him, all the shit from the last two years and the last few months fading to the back of his mind. 

“I love you too,” he managed as she pushed up on her toes to kiss him.

It was soft, almost startlingly so given how rough and passionate their most recent encounters had been. She caught his bottom lip, briefly, and when she made to pull away his hand came up to cradle the back of her head and draw her back to him. Her mouth opened, her tongue brushing lightly over his. It was teasing or wanton, but more familiar and quiet, like the kisses they'd often shared in the late hours before they both fell asleep.

She swayed a bit as she broke the kiss, but he held her firmly, the corner of his mouth curved.

“I don't...I don't know where we go from here,” she said, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Her mind felt dizzy and sleepy, her body almost languid now that she'd let out so much of what she'd been holding inside.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “Me either, to be honest.” She yawned against him, and he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “How about we start with sleep, breakfast at Granny's, and take it from there?”

Belle tilted her head up and smiled. "That sounds like the best idea you've ever had."

It was a matter of minutes for Weaver to strip off his clothes, leaving himself in just his boxers. The rain had tapered off, but the lingering chill sneaking in through the drafty corners made Belle shiver. She drew back the covers and climbed into bed, settling herself on her usual side, waiting. A moment later, he slipped in next to her, sighing as she turned over and pressed against his side.

There was something achingly familiar about what they were doing, but instead of a sinking feeling of dread and a slight pain in his chest, there was a calming peace and a pair of cold feet on his leg. Her hair tickled his chin, and he smiled, closing his eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weaver and Belle share an intimate morning, some breakfast, and finally get a break in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. They are, for now, out of the woods, and I can back to this mess of a case. I promise I have a plan, and also that it is not entirely smooth sailing from here. You can blame thatravenclawbitch. ;)

Weaver woke up with two conflicting feelings in his chest.

The first was happiness, easily explained by the petite body pressed against his and the mess of dark hair tickling his nose. Belle was in his bed and his arms, after she’d said she loved him, that she’d never stopped loving him in spite of everything. He could barely believe it, after all the shit he’d put her through, and after everything that had happened in the last few weeks.

The second was out of place next to the contented warmth that spread over him as he used the arm around her stomach to pull her closer. He felt angry; angry at himself for failing her so badly, for giving up on their relationship because he was afraid it was beyond saving. He’d been an idiot for too long. Last night seemed like a turning point, a chance at a second chance, if they could make it work, and he was determined to try if she was willing.

He pushed up on his elbow to look at the clock on the bedside table. It was just after six, far too early to get up on a Saturday, even if they’d decided to work the weekend. Faint light streamed through the narrow slits in the blinds as the sun peeked between the buildings. Belle shifted, wiggling her backside against him, and he bit back a groan as his cock twitched. His body was always eager where she was concerned, and he knew he should roll away before things could go too far.

Instead, he pushed back, letting her feel his rapidly hardening length along the curve of her buttocks. She made a small noise, and he smiled into her hair as he slipped his arm up under her pillow and let his free hand creep upwards over the soft cotton of her tank top. She grumbled softly, but didn’t wake as she shifted, rubbing her face against the pillow.

There was no going back to sleep after he woke up, but he drifted in a cozy haze for a little bit, softly running his fingers up and down her arm, and trailing them gently through her wavy hair. He reveled in the quiet intimacy of it, of feeling her weight tipped back against his chest. It grounded him, made him present in the moment. Without her, he’d been listless and untethered, giving in to the rage that the dirty underbelly of the city made him feel with every murder, assault, and rape he investigated.

Belle’s love cleansed his soul and made it easier to let it all fade into the background noise of work and life. He supposed that’s why he’d been growing so frustrated trying to make heads or tails of Eloise Gardner, and why everything had come pouring out last night. What he’d had with Belle in the last couple of weeks had been superficial and lacking because they had both been holding back.

He sighed and gave her a squeeze, smirking as she finally stirred.

“Mmm, good morning,” Belle rasped, rolling her hips backwards.

“Morning,” he replied. His cock was still hard, and there was no way she wasn’t aware of it.  
She bit her lip and reached for his hand, taking it in hers and pulling it up to her chest. “You’re smiling.”

“Just marveling at how fucking lucky I am.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, right next to the thin strap of her top.

She hummed in response and kissed his knuckles followed by the back of his hand. “And just how lucky are you?”

Weaver grinned and nosed at the strap, pushing it to the curve of her arm until it slipped over. The front of her top sagged, baring more of her breast, and he licked his lips. “I’m hoping I’m about to be _very_ lucky.”

Belle let out a deep, soft laugh as he kissed his way along her arm. She let go of his hand and it immediately went to her breast, cupping and squeezing the smooth flesh. His thumb rubbed at her nipple and she arched her back, trying to push back against his erection and forward towards his teasing hand.

“Oh,” she gasped. “I think you’re onto something there, Detective.”

His teeth scraped gently over her neck before he pressed a series of kisses to her cheek and jaw as his fingers tugged at her. She cried out and wriggled against him, pushing her shirt up further.

He stopped tormenting her breast just long enough to lift her leg up over his, spreading her enough to let the hard tip of his cock, still trapped by his boxers, press into her. She tensed and whimpered, her muscles trembling with desire.

He nipped at her earlobe and whispered, “You could be on something if you want.”

His cheesy innuendo would have made her roll her eyes normally, but waking up and feeling him pressed against her made her needy almost immediately. It had been too long since she’d had him inside her, and after last night she needed him as close as possible.

She hissed out a yes and tried to push down onto him, using her leg to leverage him even closer to her slick pussy.

He tweaked her nipple and scraped his teeth against her throat, enjoying the way her body shuddered. “What do you want, Belle?”

Her mouth fell open, her breath coming in short pants as her empty cunt throbbed. “Fuck me.”

His own breath stuttered as he anticipated how it would feel to just slide into her. “Like this?”

She liked it in this position some mornings, especially when she was already keyed up. It got them both off quickly, and usually they fell back asleep for a bit afterwards, wrapped up in each other and their shared post-orgasmic haze.

“_Yes,_” she gasped, reaching down to grasp at his leg, her short nails scraping his skin. “Yes, now, _please._”

Weaver’s hand moved along her side to push her shorts down. Her hand came to help and they managed to wiggle her out of them in a matter of seconds. She moaned and reached back, grabbing him through his boxers. He hissed, his hips jerking under her touch. 

“Fuck, Belle.”

He pulled away from her long enough to free himself of his boxers, and then rolled back, wrapping an arm around her to pull her against him. She lifted her leg, jutting her hips back, and he took himself in hand, running the tip of his cock through her slit. Her mouth opened and a desperate little noise slipped out as he stroked against her. His eyes squeezed shut at the sensation of her slick heat. She said his name, her voice catching as he moved, pushing his cock in easily, and she made that small high noise she always did when he first entered her.

Her nails dug into the mattress, hips rolling forward until he could sink all the way inside, his balls resting against her arse. He took a moment to breath, hoping to keep himself under control long enough to make sure he would ruin it by ending things too soon. Fingers found one of her pebbled nipples, exposed by her loosened top, and tweaked it roughly. When she arched and cried out, he could feel her pussy clench around him, and groaned.

“Ian,” she moaned. “Ian, move. Please - _fuck_ -”

Weaver brought his hand down in front of her stomach to brace on the bed, and snapped his hips forward. She gasped, and he did it again, harder, until she began to move with him. They stayed there, on their sides, rocking into each other, over and over, forcing his cock deep into her wet heat. He thought about rolling onto his back and pulling her up to watch her ride him, or pushing her down and fucking her into the mattress, but this was somehow better, more intimate and it kept her as close to him as possible.

He felt his orgasm coming, and there was no way he’d come without her. He lifted his hand and pushed it between her legs, brushing his cock with his own fingers before he settled them on either side of her clit. It felt swollen, slick, and hard, and even that little pressure had her keening loudly. Belle cried out, high and loud, her cunt squeezing him with sharp pulses as she came, and Weaver let himself go, feeling all the tension that had been trapped in his body rush out of him all at once.

He hadn’t realized he was panting until his breath started coming back to him. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, and her ear as they both came down from the high. She held his hand tightly, not caring that his fingers were covered in her arousal, or that there was a sticky wet mess trapped between them. He squeezed her against him, and she let out a happy little sound.

“Good?” he asked, softly, smiling as he felt her nod. “I love you.”

Her sigh made her entire body relax more than it had in weeks. “I love you too.”

* * *

Granny’s diner might not have been in the best neighborhood, but it had the best post-sex pancakes and waffles. 

Belle had declared this as fact some years ago, and it had become a fairly regular weekend occurrence for them while they were together. This was their first time returning to that tradition, and it did not go unnoticed.

“So,” Ruby said, looking back and forth between Belle and Weaver as she refilled their coffee cups. “I haven’t seen you guys here in a while. _Together._”

Belle looked at Weaver, her bottom lip caught under her teeth, and shrugged. Weaver smiled and nodded. “And?”

Ruby arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching as she reserved a snarky comment. “Nothing, it’s just...nice. To see both of you.” She gave them each a pointed looked again. “_Together._”

“Thanks, Ruby,” Belle mumbled, pulling her coffee cup towards her and wrapping her hands around it. 

She felt almost embarrassed by Ruby’s acknowledgement. It reminded her of how stupid she’d been, and how she and Ian had let their relationship dissolve over what seemed like entirely fixable reasons in hindsight.

“Oh,” Ruby, stopping as she turned to leave their table. “Thanks for sending that guy our way last night.”

Weaver frowned for a moment, and then remembered the homeless man he’d encountered. “Uh, you’re...welcome?”

She smiled. “Turns out the Army taught him how to cook pretty decently, and since we’re down a cook after Billy quit…Granny gave him a job.”

Belle beamed. “Oh! That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “he’s going to stay in my old apartment upstairs. It’s not the greatest, but it’s way better than sleeping on the street, right?” She turned and moved towards the main counter, then spun back around to tell them, “He starts tomorrow, and his name is Eddie!”

Weaver looked down at his coffee, a faint smile curving his lips until Belle reached over and held his folded hands in one of hers.

“See?” she said. “You did a good thing.”

He nodded and sighed. “Yeah, for once.”

“Stop it, Ian.” Her tilted as she looked at him. “I think both of us need to decide we’re not going to do that anymore and start fresh. Clean slate, okay?”

Nodding again, he turned one hand over and held hers, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Okay.”

“And I also think it might be good for me to talk to Archie.”

He looked up and frowned. “Dr. Hopper? The consultant psychologist?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “I think...I think I need a neutral party, you know? Someone who’s outside everything and can be objective. I know I can’t be, and that’s - that’s part of the problem.”

“Makes sense.” Then he cleared his throat. “Why Hopper?”

One of her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I know him, I trust him. He consults, but he still practices and sees his own patients, so it’s not like I’d be doing therapy at the office or anything. I need...I don’t know, perspective? Or something?”

Weaver hand tightened around hers, returning the small sign affection in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Therapy wasn’t his thing, even though he’d been required to speak to the department counselor twice in his career in Seattle, but what Belle was saying still resonated with him. They were both too involved to be objective, and if she wanted to reach out to someone and help herself, then he would support her wholeheartedly. 

He just hoped it wouldn’t mean she stopped talking to him about it.

The words must have been said out loud because she let go of his hand and got up to slid into the booth next to him, her side pressed against his arm, and her hand holding his where it rested on his thigh. She nestled her head on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to a spot below his ear.

“I won’t,” she said softly. “I need to talk about things with you as much as I need to tell an objective party. I don’t want us to go back to the way things were.”

His head turned, catching her eyes looking up at him, and he swallowed. “Me too.”

She exhaled, her warm breath ghosting over his neck. “Maybe...we could go together?” She looked up again and saw his gaze narrow. “Not every time, just - just sometimes. I think it might help you too, if you let it.”

Weaver stiffened. He didn’t like the idea, but if it helped Belle… “I’ll think about it.”

A noncommittal answer was all she was likely to get right now, so she let the matter go. 

As Belle moved back to her side of the table, Weaver’s phone rang. Rogers name and number flashed across the screen as he picked it up and answered. She watched as his face went through a series of expressions beginning with a frown and ending with his eyes wide and his mouth open.

“Are you sure?” he asked Rogers again, who patiently repeated for the third time that yes he was very sure and had the lab run the test twice. “Shit…”

He hung up the call and breathed out slowly before taking a large gulp of hot coffee. He had a feeling by the end of today caffeine wasn’t going to be enough.

“So?” Belle asked, eyebrows lifted. “What did he say?”

“They found a hair...on Eloise’s body,” he said, carefully.

“Yeah? We knew about that two days ago, it’s hers.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not.” Belle startled and sat up in her seat. “It’s Molly’s.”

“Molly Macreedy?” she hissed. He nodded, his lips pressed together as he met her eyes. Her lips parted and she tried to inhale and exhale steadily even as her heartbeat picked up. “How…?”

A hair from their first known victim was on the body of a woman Nick Branson claimed was his alibi? Her mind was spinning with questions and she blinked dazedly at Weaver, who seemed to be barely holding back a smile.

“Shit,” she breathed, her own mouth twitching and curving.

The excitement of their first real clue had them nearly giddy, as fucked up as that seemed, and a moment later they both broke into wide grins.

Weaver raised his arm and caught Ruby’s attention to let her know they were ready for their check, and pulled out a few bills. He folded them and tucked them under the edge of his coffee cup, enough to cover their usual bill, plus their customary more than necessary tip. 

“Do you want to go home first, or to the office?” he asked, slipping his wallet back inside his jacket.

Belle felt a rush of something over her that raised goosebumps on her arms, and she immediately slid out of the booth. “The station,” she declared. “I need to see this report for myself.”

He followed her out of the diner, his left hand hovering at her back as they both moved at a rapid, anxious pace. At the car, she stopped and grabbed his arm before he could go around to the driver’s side, and pulled him to her. Her other hand went up around his neck and she drew him down for a hard, quick kiss. As they pulled away, they shared another smile. 

Finally, things were looking decidedly up.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Weaver start working their new lead, and relationship status, with some surprising results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully outlined the whole rest of this story yesterday. I'm so excited. Enjoy this chapter's little bit of sexy times.

Belle pushed the office door open with her hip and twisted as she came through, a sizable file box in her hands.

Weaver glanced up at her and then returned his eyes to the page in front of him which was a long list of former addresses for both Branson brothers. He was comparing them to the lists they had from the victims, seeking some kind of overlap that perhaps he had missed before, when he was startled by the sharp thud of Belle dropping the box on the table in front of him. 

He blinked and then gave her an annoyed look. “And to what do I owe this interruption.”

“Birth records from 1999.”

“I thought they’d all been converted to digital?” He set down the page he’d been reviewing and frowned. “And that has what to do with what now?”

Belle smiled and pulled the lid off the box, flipping through the first few folders to see how they were organized. “About 90% of them had been scanned in and archived, when the budget for summer interns ran out, and well...” 

Weaver let out a small _‘ah’_ and sighed. Typical that the city would make it so far only to abandon the project because of money and never return to it. He took the first set of folders from Belle as she lifted them out and set them on his lap, idly thumbing them.

“So this is our next project...why?”

Her smile shifted to a wide grin and she dropped down on the sofa next to him. Their legs were pressed together, and braced her hand on his thigh as she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Since they had reconfirmed their feelings for each other, it was almost as if the last couple of years hadn’t happened. All the tension and awkwardness melted away and the old ease they’d had with each other returned in full in the span of a few days.

“I was looking over Molly’s file, since we confirmed that the hair they found on Eloise’s...bag...was hers, and I noticed the issue date on her birth certificate.” 

She slid the photocopy from the county clerk’s office out of a folder and pointed to the date in the upper right corner. Weaver took the paper from her and sat back, as she turned and sat sideways on the sofa, watching him. Molly’s birthday was mid-January 1997, but the issued date on the birth certificate was from April of 1999.

“It’s two years off,” he said, setting paper down on the table. “So...why would that be? Did they have to amend it or something?”

Belle shook her head. “I thought that too, like maybe Mrs. Macreedy wasn’t Mrs. Macreedy when she had Molly, and there wasn’t a father listed initially, but they were married in 1992.”

“Somebody at the clerk’s office make a typo that had to be corrected later?” He’d seen that more than once from a misspelling on a form, bad handwriting, or a misunderstanding on which version of a name was being used.

Again, Belle’s head turned back and forth slowly as her lips started to curve. “Nope. It was actually issued in 1999.”

Weaver started to smile as well. She was teasing him with whatever clue she’d already figured out, and being adorable while she was at it. Her teeth caught on her lip, and he barely held himself back from kissing her.

“Am I supposed to keep guessing,” he asked, “or are you going to relieve my suspense?”

“Molly Macreedy was _adopted._”

His eyes went wide at her words, and he sat forward, his frown returning. “What? Her parents never once mentioned that.”

“Well, it’s not like they would have thought it was relevant to our investigation,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe they wanted to keep it a secret, or maybe Molly didn’t even know.”

Blowing out a breath, he shook his head. “That’s a hell of a thing not to tell your child.”

“As you would know.”

He gave a nod to her offhand comment, remembering the entire debacle with his ex-wife and the boy he’d been led to believe was his son. It was a long time ago now, and his relationship with Neal had weathered the turmoil, coming out all the stronger for it in spite of their lack of blood relation. Even now he wished he could forget the sting of all the lies Milah had told. 

Belle’s hand on his shoulder brought him back, and he turned to her, giving her a half smile. “Do we have the adoption records?”

She sighed and her face fell. “No, unfortunately. There are no adoption records in this state under the name Macreedy.”

His lips pursed briefly as he thought. “So it must have happened in another state then.”

“That’s one thought, yes,” she admitted. 

“I have other thoughts, if you’re interested.” His gaze drifted down to the deep V made by her blouse and back up to meet her eyes. Then he waggled his eyebrows at her exaggeratedly

“Save it for later,” she said softly, leaning to press her lips against his. When she pulled back, she was all business. “I thought we’d confirm that by looking at the records from the same birthdate as Molly’s and work from there. If we can get enough specifics and show enough possible connections between her adoption and the case, we can reach out to other states and ask for their records.”

He sighed heavily. “Just what I love. More paperwork.”

* * *

Weaver groaned and his dropped back against the top of the sofa, his eyes closing as Belle’s soft lips dragged up the length of his cock one last time.

She pulled her mouth free with a wet pop and held his shaft in her hand as she pressed a kiss to the head. A crooked grin spread over her face, and he muttered a curse when she pushed up and climbed onto the sofa to straddle him. She closed the distance between them, and he met her halfway, letting out a soft, pleased sigh as their lips met. His arm went around her waist, pulling their bodies together as his free hand tangled in her hair.

They’d brought home work, as had become the norm, and started by dividing up the adoption records she’d requested from neighboring states. The pile from California alone would take them days to get through, but the revelation of Molly Macreedy’s parentage and the possibility of a connection between her and Eloise Gardner had given them enough motivation to carry them through the first few days. Belle had changed into more comfortable clothes and set herself on the floor in fron the sofa, her laptop on the coffee table and her notepad in her lap, while he stretched out behind her.

After a while, his eyes were burning from deciphering terrible handwriting and bad photocopies, and he let his left hand wander over her shoulder, giving it a light rub before slipping under the strap of her camisole. She offered no resistance when he went lower to cup her breast, and after a few minutes, turned the tables on him by unzipping his jeans and taking his rapidly hardening cock in her perfect mouth.

Weaver felt warm everywhere and he smiled as she pulled back, breaking the kiss. She didn’t go far, nuzzling against his cheek, her eyes, though half lidded and deep, like the dark blue gray color of the sky before a storm. Her fingers stroked through his hair as she pressed kisses to his cheek and jaw.

“Love you,” she said against his neck, and he gave her a firm squeeze with his arms.

“Your turn,” was his reply as his hands moved down over her backside, taking her yoga pants with them.

Belle sat back as he tugged the stretch fabric down her thighs, and pulled down the front of her top to bare her breasts to his mouth. He brushed the end of his nose over a nipple making her body jerk in response, her back arching and her hips rutting against him. His head dipped to take her nipple in his mouth, and she let out a high keening sound, her eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a groan of his own, muffled against her skin.

He’d switched between her breasts twice before he moved on, enjoying the way she begged with every gasp and shifted her hips impatiently. His thumb over her first, wanting to test her reaction, and he smiled, letting go of her nipple with a final nip of his teeth as she whimpered. Even that light touch had her toes curling into the sofa, her hips jerking towards his hand. Her clit was swollen and she was slick in every place, and he would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t get a thrill from feeling how much she wanted him, even after all these years and everything that had happened between them.

“Up,” he ordered, pulling his hand away to take hold of her pants. 

She stumbled to her feet and let him pull them the rest of the way down before she stepped out of them. With her standing and him sitting, her pussy was at the perfect height, and he couldn’t help himself as he leaned forward and licked at her, dragging his tongue over her clit. She let out an utterly obscene sound, and he followed it by sliding a single finger inside her, pushing deep until her legs wobbled and she had to lean forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders.

Weaver leaned back and pulled her down across his lap again, his hand remaining between her legs all the way. One finger quickly became two, and then three as she moved in sync with him, panting and keening her pleasure. He wanted to be inside her properly, but that would have to wait until they went to bed later. He’d already had the privilege of watching her suck him dry, and right now he wanted to see her fall apart more than anything.

“Ian - _fuck..._” 

Belle’s chest heaved and her hand slid in his hair, pulling hard as he pressed his thumb to her clit, letting it rub alongside the tender nub as his fingers thrust in and out of her slickness. Short nails scraped at his neck, pulling a low groan from his throat as her pussy spasmed and her whole body shuddered. His name fell from her lips over and over, but he didn’t stop stroking until she whined at the overstimulation and slumped against him. He pulled his hand free and wiped it on his thigh before he brought both arms up to hold her close as her breathing settled.

She hummed happily and turned her face into his warm neck, pressing a kiss to the spot where his pulse throbbed. “We’re not getting much work done.”

He laughed softly as she pulled back, and lifted the front of her camisole, dragging it teasingly over her still hard nipples. She bit her lip and made a small, gasping sound as the stretchy material grazed her chest, her eyes darkening as she looked down at him.

“Need another?” he asked, his voice low and his lips curving crookedly as he smoothed his hands down her sides.

She bent her head and kissed him firmly. “Later,” she said as her mouth moved to his ear, “when I’m kneeling on the bench in the bedroom and you’re fucking me hard from behind.”

Weaver swallowed hard and moaned, already feeling the return of that hazy warmth of arousal even as she climbed to her feet and redressed. He exhaled and let the feeling drift away, refocusing his mind on what they’d been working on before they’d been distracted by more pleasurable pursuits. 

“I was thinking,” he said, “that we could save ourselves some work and just ask the Macreedys what they know.”

Belle tugged the cuff of her pants down where it had ridden high on her ankle, and frowned. “They pretty much told us in no uncertain terms they never wanted to see Seattle PD or anyone from the DA’s office again, so...?”

He shrugged as he stood and zipped his fly. “Yeah, but that was when their daughter’s death was still fresh, and we kept showing up at their door with a million questions and no bloody leads. Now we have two killers behind bars.”

She sighed and ran the back of her thumbnail over her bottom lip. Her eyes ran over the stacks of papers sitting around the space, and landed on her laptop screen. She’d been working her way through searches of adoption records by county in the state of Oregon, trying to correlate dates to the date of what they assumed was Molly’s adoption.

“Yeah,” she agreed, staring down at the blinking cursor as it flashed in an empty date field. “Maybe, but...I don’t want to be the one to make that phone call.”

Weaver stepped up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders and drawing her back against him as his fingers gently kneaded her tense muscles. “I’ll do it.”  
She sighed again and looked back at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and she groaned as his thumb pressed at the side of her neck. “You’re a mess, sweetheart.”

Belle let out a snorting laugh. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t had a spa day in ages.”

“Or a day off?”

There was another sigh as her head dropped forward, providing his hands with more access to the back of her neck and the tops of her shoulders. “That hasn’t been a mandatory holiday during which I probably brought work home anyway? No.”

He let his hands run down over her shoulders and then wrap around her from behind. “When this is over, we should -” he whispered, almost afraid to say it and risk her pushing him away again, “we should go somewhere.”

Belle swallowed and closed her eyes as he squeezed her against his chest. The thought of a vacation with Ian, even for a few days, gave her a strange feeling. They’d admitted their feelings, temporarily reconciled, and had come back to the apartment to live together in every way possible, but they hadn’t talked about what any of this meant. 

“Yeah?”

“If you want,” he replied softly, bringing his hands up to hold hers where they crossed over her abdomen.

She started to smile as their fingers intertwined. “Where?”

Weaver’s nose pressed into her hair as he breathed her in, content for the moment that she hadn’t rejected the idea outright. “Anywhere you want to go.”

* * *

Belle hung up the phone, after thanking the Macreedys for a third time, and sagged in her chair.

It had taken a couple of days to get a response from their attorney, but they’d agreed to a conference call which had gone much better than she and Weaver had expected. Evelyn Macreedy seemed almost relieved that they knew the truth about the adoption, though she’d been quite shocked to hear about the possible link between Molly and another potential victim. The husband, David, however, was still reluctant to talk to them and remained quiet for most of the call until the very end when he asked about the Branson brothers. Weaver assured him that both suspects were staying in jail through their trial, and that seemed to placate him for the most part. 

The Macreedys explained that Molly’s biological mother had given birth to her in a Nevada prison, where she was serving time for theft, fraud, and a host of other non-violent offenses. Molly was first put into foster care, with the intention that at some point she might be returned to her mother, but unfortunately, after her biological mother was released on parole, the woman left the state and was never heard from again. The Macreedys were living in Henderson at the time, a city just south of Las Vegas, where David worked in project management for a building contractor. They’d moved there from Phoenix when housing was booming in the area in the 80s and 90s. 

They’d struggled for several years to have a baby, and then turned to adoption through an attorney friend of David’s. They adopted Molly from foster care when she was two years old, but shortly after David’s career took them to Seattle. They filed the appropriate paperwork to seal the adoption records, and decided not to tell Molly. Evelyn admitted she was terrified that Molly would want to find her biological mother, and that they would lose her too. By the end of their story Belle was near tears, her left hand clinging to Weaver’s under the table.

Something had been nagging at Weaver’s brain from the second Evelyn had mentioned that they lived in Nevada, and as soon as the call came to an end, he was digging through the case file on Nick Branson. There was so much material involved in the case it was hard to keep it all in his head, and it annoyed him that so many of the pieces were scattered across storage boxes, file cabinets, and folders.

Belle ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “I feel so bad for them. They went through so much to get their daughter, and just when her life is getting going, just went she’s about to be a full fledged adult with the whole rest of her life in front of her, she’s...gone. Taken from them just like they feared.”

Weaver frowned and looked over at Belle. “Are you okay?”

She sniffed and pushed to her feet. “Yeah, it just sucks.”

“Aye, it does,” he replied, as he returned to his search.

Belle came over to stand next to him, peering into the case box. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He pulled out a folder, his brow furrowed, and flipped it open. His eyes scanned the first page, and as he came to the bottom, his eyes went wide. “Shit.”

“What?”

“This,” he said, handing Belle the relevant sheet. He set the rest of the folder aside and pointed to a line near the bottom. “It’s a list of Nick Branson’s previous addresses.”

The dates on the entry aligned with Molly's adoption, and Belle felt like she’d been punched in the chest as she read the line three times to make sure she what she was seeing was real.

_Nicholas Branson_  
_775 Cottage Grove Rd_  
_Apt 4B_  
_Las Vegas, NV 89119_

She blinked and looked up at Weaver, her mouth hanging open. “Shit.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has her first session with Archie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rough one to get out and I'm sorry it took so long. Here on out there will be two parallel plots: Belle's recovery and relationship with Weaver, and solving the murder of Eloise Gardener.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for discussion of PTSD, Belle's attack, and mention of her miscarriage.

The room smelled like paper and tea, a comforting and warm contrast to the steady rain that was falling outside.

Belle pressed her hands over the front of her skirt and looked around the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper. There was a leather sofa flanked by two bookcases with a set of three black and white prints in thick black frames hanging above it. The shelves were arranged with a mix of artistic pieces and leather bound volumes of medical and legal books, looking so perfectly put together that combined with the rest of the room it all had less the feel of Archie, her friend and colleague, and more last month’s Pottery Barn catalog.

“Nice office,” she said finally.

Archie smiled and took a seat in the high backed leather chair across from her. “Thanks. It beats the south wing of the hospital.”

She laughed lightly, recalling the rather dilapidated old patient rooms that had once made up a sizable bed tower and part of the original hospital where Archie had once worked. While the rest of the building was expanded and renovated over the decades, the south wing had been largely ignored and converted into office space for those who didn’t rate mid century modern credenzas and floor to ceiling glass that overlooked the bay.

“Yeah, it definitely does,” she agreed, glancing around the room. “You’ve certainly moved up in the world.”

“It was those excessive bonuses the city paid me for all the consulting hours you demanded.”

His lips curved, and Belle shook her head. “Yes, well, good to know my budget overages were well spent.”

They shared a laugh, and then Dr. Hopper shifted in his seat, mentally moving from friend and colleague to therapist with no more than an adjustment of his body and the picking up of his pen.

“I’m assuming that what brought you here wasn’t a desire to reminisce about the city's lack of funding for prosecution experts.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “How did you ever guess?”

Archie flashed her a weak smile, and let out a breath. “Belle, I know what happened to you - not the details, of course, but enough - and I know that it’s policy to have a psychological review before returning to work. However -”

“That’s not what this is,” she interrupted. “I mean, yeah, I’ll probably need you to fill out the official form at some point, but I’m already back at work.”

Hopper frowned slightly. “I see.”

Belle glanced up. “Midas knows me well enough to know that I feel better being back at work than taking two weeks of leave.”

“And how do you feel being back at work so soon?”

She gave him a look. “_Fine._ We’re making some progress on, um, the body that was found in the community garden.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because -” she paused and licked her lips, spreading her hands over her thighs as her palms started to feel clammy. “Because it’s when I’m not at work that, um, that I don’t think I’m fine.”

He nodded and made some kind of mark on his pad. “What makes you think that you aren’t fine?”

Her head rolled back against the sofa as she blew out a breath between her lips. “Is this how it works? You just turn my answers into questions?”

“How else would you like it to work?”

Belle’s head lifted, her eyebrow arching. “Ha ha.”

Archie smirked and then made another mark on his notepad before setting it aside. “Look, this is like any other doctor’s appointment, right? You have to tell me your symptoms, as it were, so I know what’s going on and where to start. Right?” She nodded, and he continued, “So, what’s been going on?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, leaning forward to lean her elbows on her knees. “Got attacked by a serial killer in my own apartment, stabbed him in the leg, and now...”

“Now...what?” Hopper coaxed.

She sighed. “I can’t sleep unless my ex-husband is with me. I keep sort of - reliving what happened, but the memories are - are weird. I feel...I don’t know, like tired but jittery all the time? I only feel okay when I’m at work, when I can focus on the case, focus on _doing_ something about what happened, you know?”

She left out that the only other times she seemed to feel normal was when she was playing house with her ex, eating, sleeping, and fucking like nothing had happened in the last two years, like they hadn’t made a mess of everything.

Archie raised his eyebrows when she mentioned Weaver, and folded his hands. “So, you and Detective Weaver are...?”

She shrugged and straightened. “I don’t know what we are. I stayed with him while my apartment was a crime season, but it’s been cleaned and released. I just haven’t gone back. I haven’t wanted to, I guess.”

“Okay, let’s, um, let’s park the relationship stuff for now,” he said. “Tell me - tell me about your memory of what happened. When does it come to you? What do you recall?”

“Usually when I’m alone,” she replied. “Day or night, doesn’t matter. It’s flashes, mostly, feelings. Cold from his - his leather jacket, pressing against my back. I was told that he’d been hiding out on the balcony, waiting until - until I got home.”

Archie swallowed and crossed his arms. “And?”

“Heat,” she continued. “Like my face is flushed, but it’s - it’s from, uh -

She lifted her hair at the front, exposing the red line where her skin was still healing even weeks later. “He hit me and it, um, made it hard to see. Everything was - was red.”

Dr. Hopper pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing as her hair dropped back over the wound. “You said that your memories were off. Could you tell me more about that?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, as she bit her lip. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth curved slightly as he gave her a brief nod. The room started to feel too warm, and she leaned forward to take a sip of the water he’d set out for her. 

“It’s strange,” Belle said finally, sitting back against the cool leather. Her hands fidgeted with the ring on her right hand. “Remembering, I mean. It’s like - it’s like I’m outside of myself, but not - not in any kind of weird out of body experience way, more like... I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Dr. Hopper gave her a small smile and nodded. “Try. Tell me one thing at a time, and take as long as you need.”

She sighed. “I feel - heavy. Like I can’t move my arms or legs no matter how much I want to. There's pressure too, in my head. It’s kinda like a sinus headache, but without being stuffed up at all, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Then he shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Does your heart rate increase or is it hard to breathe?”

Belle shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I just have this strange feeling, and there’s a flash of light. Then I look down and - and there’s -”

Hopper’s head tilted. “What? What do you see?”

She breathed in and out through her nose as her eyes fixed on the glint of the light as she twisted the white gold band of her ring back and forth. It was a square sapphire in a pale blue color, about a half carat in size. Weaver had given it to her for their first anniversary. She’d worn it nearly every day while they were together, but as soon as she left the divorce attorney’s office, it had been relegated to a small wooden box at the back of her dresser drawer where she kept some of her mother’s old jewelry. The first night they’d retrieved her things from her apartment, she’d grabbed it without thinking as she was rummaging for some socks.

“Belle, what do you see?” Dr. Hopper repeated.

Belle swallowed and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Blood.”

Hopper nodded, pressing his lips together again as his pen tapped against the pad next to him. It was an action she’d seen from him often when he’d consulted on a case, usually when he was thinking through his response to a question.

“Yours or - or his?”

“Both,” she said quickly, the hitch in his voice making hers waver as well.

He gave her a sympathetic look and took a breath before he asked his next question. “And, um, where is the blood?”

She breathed out again, slowly and took another swallow of water. “On my hands.” She set the drink down and looked down at her palms, blinking a few times as the image of the red, dripping stains flashed into her mind. “My blouse. The counter. The floor.”

Then she took another breath. “And sometimes it’s um -”

Dr. Hopper’s head tilted. “It’s what?”

Belle blinked hard. “Um, on my - my legs.”

“Why only sometimes?”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she tried to force the image away. “Don’t know.”

The slight shift in Archie’s expression revealed he didn’t believe her, but he seemed willing to let it go for now, and she sighed again.

“Let’s go back to your relationship with Detective Weaver.” 

She frowned. “Why?”

Dr. Hopper sat back, crossing his legs, and smiled. “I suspect some of this starts a little further back than Jack Branson.”

Belle huffed and shook her head. “It doesn’t. And you already know the story. We were married, then we got divorced.”

“And?”

“And?” She raised her eyebrows and held Archie’s gaze. “What?”

“And now you’re...?”

There was a low throb starting in her head as she pulled at her ring again, sliding it over her knuckle until it spun freely around her finger. “I told you, I don’t know what we are, not right now.”

“Can you tell me what you’d like to be?”

“No.” Then she sighed. “I let things go too far while we were working on the case, and before you ask, you know exactly what I mean by _‘too far’_ Mr. I Accidentally Screwed the Waitress Who Was Also a Witness.”

Archie’s face flushed, and Belle flashed him a brief smile. His affair with Ruby had been problematic at the time, and it had forced him to step back from his role as an expert consultant. Now that they’d been together for a couple of years, it was all water under the bridge, and the switch back to private practice was overall better for everyone.  
She sighed. “Now everything is...I don’t know. It’s good, but it’s also temporary, so I’m trying not to get complacent or get used to anything, you know?”

Hopper shifted in his seat, his lips pursing for a moment. “Why does it have to be temporary?”

“Because we’re _divorced,_” she answered flatly.

“Why?”

Belle pushed her ring back on her finger and paused. “Why what? Why are we divorced?” Dr. Hopper’s head tilted again, and she gave him an annoyed glare. “I’m not dredging up our marital issues, Arch. I’ve been there, done that.”

“Have you?” he asked. “Been there, done that?”

She made a face. “Well not like _this,_ obviously, but I think I’ve rehashed it enough in my head for ten therapists, thanks.”

Archie chuckled at that and shook his head. “Fair enough. Though I do get the impression there’s a piece I’m missing here.”

“How do you mean?” She folded her arms over her middle and mirrored Archie by crossing her legs.

He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You and Ian were good together, Belle. We all saw that. I have to admit that when I heard you two were splitting up, it was - it was quite a shock.” 

Belle looked away as he spoke, clenching her jaw as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. She’d heard the same statements from others before, during, and immediately after the divorce. Everyone thought they were so perfect together, but of course none of them had to live with a reticent police detective who didn’t know how to let anyone in. She always thought he’d change, that he’d soften with time, open up more the longer they were together. The night he chose a murder over her and their baby, she’d realized she’d been wrong.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It was to me too.”

Hopper pursed his lips again and watched her as she tugged on her ring again, slipping it over her knuckle to spin it around her fingertip. She paused to wipe at her eye, and he sat back with another heavy sigh.

“Belle -”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Archie blinked and frowned at the words she’d blurted out. “You - _what?_” 

He licked his lips as his mind grasped for words. Confusion and shock had made him lose his usual quiet coherence, and he leaned forward again. “I’m sorry, I’m just - I’m trying to understand. Was this after - after your attack, or -?”

“_No,_” Belle said quickly. She met Dr. Hopper’s eyes, her stare firm in spite of the tear that was trickling over her cheek. “No, it was - before. It’s why - why we divorced.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “So -”

She felt her face heat as her vision blurred. There was a faint ringing in her ears that made her shake her head, sending a volley of tears down her face. She was vaguely aware of the tissue box sliding closer, pushed by Dr. Hopper, when she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then lurched forward. Her feet stumbled over each other, her shoe coming loose as she stood and tried to walk around the coffee table that was between her and Archie. He said her name as she moved, one hand stretched out in front of her to catch the bathroom door and push it open while the other was pressed to her mouth.

* * *

Belle sniffled again, wiping at her nose with the battered tissue before tossing it in the trash can and exiting the small bathroom. 

Archie stood up quickly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

She was surprised how true it felt in spite of how upset she’d been a few minutes ago. It had been a long time since she’d said the words out loud, and once she had it was like the dam had broken, flooding her body with emotions she’d kept at bay for over two years. In hindsight, the miscarriage had bled into the situation with Ian, leaving everything a jumbled mess well before her encounter with Jack. 

Archie was right.

“So, Arch, how fucked up am I?” she asked, letting out a humorless laugh.

Dr. Hopper sighed and came closer, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “No more so than any of the rest of us.”

She shook her head. “I doubt that.”

“Belle, what’s happening to you is normal,” he started. “You were physically attacked in your own home, by a man whose pathology I can’t even fathom right now. Having some PTSD from that is completely expected. Everything else on top of that...? I can’t imagine what all you’ve been through.”

She breathed out, feeling a strange sort of relief at his words. “Yeah.”

“I think,” Archie started, cautiously, “that it would be a good idea for you to keep talking about this.”

“With you?” She blinked up at him, her expression pulled as the steady pulse of a headache grew.

He shrugged. “With whomever you like, whoever you feel comfortable talk to. That’s the only way this is going to get better.”

Belle reached up and pushed her fingers into her hair, rubbing at her scalp. “I don’t think I’d want to talk to anyone else, if that’s okay.”

His mouth curved slightly. “Of course it is. Whatever I can do to help, Belle.”

* * *

Belle checked her makeup in the mirror one last time and ran a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it into place. She looked passable, if a bit tired, but then that had been her almost perpetual state since the case had started. Her heels thudded softly on the carpet as she made her way back to her office, her gait stuttering briefly when she spied Weaver sitting at the conference table.

_Shit._

She’d been hoping he was still at the station following up on Nick Branson’s former employer in Las Vegas. When she’d made the appointment with Dr. Hopper, she’d had every intention of telling Weaver that she was going, but in the end every moment that might have been right, wasn’t. He’d be supportive, of course, he had been when she’d first mentioned it a week ago, and their history with Archie had only raised the psychologist’s esteem in his eyes. Yet she’d held back that morning when he’d asked her what she was going to get up to while he was tiring his eyes out at a computer screen.

She let out a steadying breath and pushed open the door to the office.

Weaver twisted and looked over his shoulder at her, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, brightly, hurrying over to her desk to set her purse down.

“I was surprised you weren’t here when I got back.”

“Oh, I ran a quick errand after lunch.” She shrugged and looked up at him, knowing full well by the way his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly that he didn’t quite believe her. “Find anything?”

“Couple addresses,” he replied. “Some names to follow up on. The construction company Branson worked for went out of business a couple of years ago, but I have contact information for the holding company that took over its assets.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I guess.” Then he frowned slightly, and pushed back from the table, twisting to face her. “Are you okay?”

Belle sighed and busied herself with sorting through some papers on her desk. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

His expression was inscrutable as he stood and came to stand in front of her desk. “I don’t think we’re going to get much more done today, if you want to take off early.”

She glanced up at him. “Why would I do that?”

Weaver shrugged. “You’re tired.”

She sighed again and straightened, knowing from his flat tone that he hadn’t believed her, but he was still offering her a way out anyway. It annoyed her and she wasn’t sure why. “Well it’s been a long...month.”

He gave a slight nod as his lips pressed together. “Yeah, and we worked a lot of weekends in the last little while. You need some down time.

She shot him a look. “I’m fine, Ian.”

He gave her a look and moved around the side of the desk until he was next to her. “Belle, you look absolutely shattered.” Then he took hold of her hand and started tugging her away from her work. “Come on.”

“Ian...” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms.

He turned on his heel and faced her. “Belle...”

They stood for a moment, staring at each other with equal exasperation, until Belle’s shoulders sagged. She was tired, that went without saying, both from her appointment with Archie and the weeks and months that had preceded it. There was a standard level of fatigue that she’d dealt with her whole career, brought on by long days in court, and longer nights of composing motion documents and briefs. But this was new. This was a less familiar bone deep weariness that weighed her whole body down, pulling her to the Earth. It didn’t feel like being grounded so much as it felt like being drowned, sucked down under the dark waves and suffocated.

Belle’s head dropped as she exhaled. “I went to talk to Archie after I left Midas’s office.”

Weaver seemed to startle a bit at her words, shifting his stance as his eyes went wide. “Okay...and?”

“And, it was... a lot.” She looked up and blinked almost dazedly.

He moved closer, taking the kind of slow steps one might when they were approaching a skittish cat. When he came within arm's length, she reached for him, all but grabbing the front of his white shirt as he closed the distance between them. She turned, falling against him as he moved to hold her, and buried her face in his chest.

"You sure you're all right?"

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, breathing in his warm, earthy scent. “Yeah,” she replied, slightly muffled. He made a grunting noise, and she looked up. “What?”

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. “Let’s go home.” She stiffened and he squeezed her against him. “You can take a hot bath, I’ll make the scallops I picked up on my way back form the station, and -”

“You got fresh scallops?”

His lips quirked as her eyes widened hopefully. “You won’t know until you get home.”

Belle pulled back and swatted at his chest. “You don’t play fair.” 

He laughed softly, and she shook her head, knowing that what he was suggesting was for her own good. They both needed a break, and the lull while they waited for courts and county clerks to process a pile of paperwork and red tape might just be the thing.

“Yeah, okay. I can write up the rest of the records requests on my laptop.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, dryly, dropping his arms and taking a step back. “Just not in the bath this time, not after what happened with your iPad.”

She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and shot him a glare with significantly less venom than usual. “Shut up.”

Weaver pulled open the office door, still smirking, and held it for her as she stepped through into the hallway. “Yes, dear.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is frustrated, tense, and annoyed with the case and with life, but Weaver once again knows how to get her to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was not just an excuse to write some more hot smut between these two, I swear. Also the plotty bits that I intended for this chapter are now moved to the next one. The number of planned chapters is not changing however. Please note the additional smut tags for light spanking and a little anal play, which I am very nervous about. It just happened and I hope it doesn't turn anyone off. Sorry.

Weaver sighed and pushed the folder away from him, shoving it across the conference table.

Belle sat at her desk across the room, her shoulders hunched as she typed and her eyes moving back and forth between a printout of Nevada adoption law and the laptop screen. She was, what Weaver would call, cranky. Of course, getting the information on Molly Macreedy’s adoption wasn’t as simple as calling up and asking for a favor, one ADA to another. First papers had to be filed locally and approved by a judge, then a request had to be processed through the Washington State AG’s office, which then came back to Belle to be filled with the Clark County District Attorney’s office, requesting, very nicely, one state to another, for them to open a sealed adoption record. 

That had necessitated another call to Molly’s adoptive parents to get their signoff on opening a potential can of worms. They were very accommodating, though Weaver felt like every time he reached out, it was ripping the bandage off the wound again, one that he knew would never heal.

Since her meeting with Dr. Hopper, she’d been out of sorts. It was more than the tedious paperwork or the weight of serial murder case. Weaver got the sense that something had happened at her appointment, but he was hesitant to ask. He didn’t have a right to question her about her therapy, especially when he could see that she needed to talk to someone. He only wished she would talk to him as well, let him know what she was thinking and feeling, both about the case, about her own trauma, and about him. 

She’d said she loved him.

Yet since that moment, it had felt like there was a ‘but’ waiting, a shoe that hadn’t dropped, and when it did would put them right back where they started. They hadn’t talked about where they stood, about what this continuing period of living together really was in the long run. He knew what he wanted, but it seemed like Belle did not. She’d been through a lot in the last few weeks, they both had, and perhaps she just needed time, though the more time that went by the less sure of that he felt.

He was tired of walking on eggshells, but loathed to stir the pot too much for fear it would push her away.

Belle muttered a curse, drawing Weaver out of his thoughts. He twisted his chair and met her annoyed gaze over the screen of her laptop.

“Interstate legal wrangling not going well?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes and then sat back in her chair, her body sagging against the leather. “It’s going fine, just at the same rate of speed as a glacier.”

“Did they say when they might get back to you?”

She made a face and shrugged. “Records that far back aren’t digital yet, only 2010 and after. Which means some poor county worker gets to dig through boxes in a warehouse. So...if they can find them yet this week, they’ll be reviewed Monday or Tuesday, scanned, and emailed to me by maybe Thursday? If we’re lucky.”

She sighed, heavily, and leaned forward again, closing the email she’d been glaring at. Weaver pushed to his feet and crossed the room, meeting her tired look of annoyance with what he hoped was sympathy. He came around behind her chair as she braced her elbows on the desk and put her head in her hands, her fingers sliding into her hair to hold it back from her face.

“I hate waiting,” she groused.

“I know,” he replied, fighting a smile. 

Belle and patience were not things that went together, and that saying something coming from a cop who had been known to bend some rules in the past in order to speed up an investigation. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“There’s plenty to do in the meantime,” he continued, gently pressing at the lump of muscle connecting her neck and back. “We should find out if any of the other victims were adopted, besides Molly and Nick, just in case that’s the connection we’ve been missing.”

She exhaled and bent her head further forward, encouraging his hands to work their way further up the tension in her neck. “Yeah.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, with her leaning on the desk and him kneading at her sore muscles, until he abruptly stopped. She made an unhappy sound and threw a look at him as he stepped away.

“I’ll happily keep going,” he said, smirking, “but at home. It’s half six already.”

Belle frowned and glanced down at her laptop screen, noting the time in the bottom corner. “Shit.”

He picked up his leather jacket from its customary spot, draped over the arm of her sofa, and turned back to her. “Frank’s tonight?”  
She tilted her head, already imagining the satisfying taste of the bacon chicken burger that was her usual order. “Split some mozz sticks?”

Weaver’s eyebrows lifted. “Split? Or I get _two,_ and you get the remaining _eight?_”

She crumpled an extraneous piece of paper and tossed the wad at him before pushing back from her desk. He caught the paper easily, laughing, and shoved it in his pocket, to be deposited in the trash can on their way out.

* * *

Belle blew out a breath and closed the lid of her laptop.

They ate dinner at the counter in the kitchen while she searched county and state foster records for the names of the victims, but found nothing. Adoption records would take more effort, paperwork, and time. While it didn’t mean that wasn’t the connection between the victims, it was nonetheless another disappointment. It felt like the case was stalling, that the momentum they had after capturing Jack Branson was losing the battle with friction.

After dinner, she moved to the living room, and sat on the floor in front of the sofa with her laptop on the coffee table and papers spread out around her. She rolled her head to the side, frowning when it didn’t crack as she had hoped, and leaned back against the front of the sofa. Sitting on the floor had done her no favors. Ever since her appointment with Dr. Hopper there had been a vague tension in her body that if she just moved or twisted the right way would pop and bring sweet relief. Unfortunately, she knew that wasn’t the case.

Talking to Archie had been both cathartic and nerve wracking. She was glad she had told him about the miscarriage, and that someone other than Ian and her knew, but at the same time she wasn’t sure what kind of rabbit hole that would lead her down. There was no doubt that Archie would bring it up at her next session, which she hadn’t actually confirmed yet, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it. Revisiting that old wound, even in a small way, had taken a toll on her. She wanted to tell Weaver about it, yet held back. If she brought it up, he would want to talk about it, the same as Archie did, and all she wanted was to shove it down deep and pretend it never happened.

Obviously, that had been working well for her the last two years.

Weaver finished cleaning up in the kitchen, and sat down on the couch behind Belle.

“Still no luck, huh.”

“Nope.” She sighed, ignoring his question, and tipped her head back, resting it on the sofa cushion. “So about keeping that shoulder rub going...?”

He smiled and waited until she scooted forward before he moved over and settled behind her. Belle turned off the TV, which had been left on after the six o’clock news was over, and let her head fall forward as he laid his hands over the tops of her shoulders. His thumbs ran along the line of her neck, pressing harder on the way up than on the way back down, fanning out over muscles that feel as though they’ve been cramped for hours. He felt an unnatural hardness at the junction of her neck and shoulders, and worked his fingers into it in slow circles with steady pressure. 

She breathed out and her head bobbed forward in relaxation when his fingers slid through her hair, nails scraping deliciously over her scalp, before trailing back down her neck. 

"You're too good at this," she said as he eased her further forward, kneading the inside edge of her trapezius muscle. 

His palms pushed gently, rubbing at the hidden tension. "And you're too tense.”

She exhaled again. “Yeah, must have slept wrong or something.”

He let out a grunting sound that was somehow both disbelief and agreement, in that order. It made her chastise herself that she still hadn’t brought up what she’d told Archie, and that she hadn’t called to make another appointment. 

Weaver reached down, trying to find the spot at the base of her shoulder blade that always seemed to knot up, but the angle from the couch was awkward and there wasn’t enough space between her and the sofa to make it work.

He pulled his hands away and sat back. “Up.”

She frowned over her shoulder at him, and he repeated the command as he pushed to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked, scrambling to her feet.

He paused and turned around in the doorway of the bedroom, smirking, and she rolled her eyes even as she stood and followed after him. He coaxed her out of the t-shirt she’d changed into after they arrived home, pulling up over her head to reveal the lace bralette underneath. His tongue pushed at his bottom lip when she undid the clasp and let it fall to the floor, followed by shoving her yoga pants down over her hips.

“You want me on the bed?” she asked with a cheeky quirk of her lips.

Weaver rolled his eyes, which made her giggle as she stretched out over the duvet, and moved to open the bedside table where a small bottle of her preferred body lotion was stashed. He popped it open, catching a whiff of vanilla and jasmine, and applied some to his palms, rubbing them together to warm it up before he touched her.

He knelt with one knee on the bed and began to slowly rub her back from shoulders to waist, up and down, slicking up her skin until it was soft and slippery. She groaned as his thumbs ran up her spine in a steady, even pressure that rolled over the muscles along her vertebrae. His fingers pressed against the prominent cliffs of her shoulder blades, jutting out as she rested her head on her bent elbows. Finally, he found the knot he’d been seeking earlier and kneaded it carefully, feeling the cramp in the tissue eventually give way and push a deep sigh from her lips.

His hands glided along her curves, easing away the tension in long, slow strokes, drawing out more little sounds. She shifted as he moved over the outside of her hips, massaging down the back of her thighs and calves, spanning them with both of his hands at the same time. She let out another low moan as he worked his way back up from her feet, and shifted her legs apart to work his thumbs into the muscles of her inner thighs. 

He swept his fingers over her skin again and again, inching closer to the edge of her panties, and she let out a small whimper. The sound made his cock twitch, and he bit back a groan.

"So do I pay extra for you to keep going?" Belle asked, grinning as she stretched her legs against the bed, spreading them slightly.

Weaver’s hands moved slowly up the backs of her thighs, kneading the flesh gently and rubbing the last of the lotion in as she lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at him. He stopped below the curve of her backside, feeling the heat emanating from between her legs as she raised her hips. 

He licked his lips. “Maybe, but I have some very _flexible_ terms.”

His fingers slowly trailed up between her legs, lightly rubbing her there, her folds already swollen and wet beneath her underwear. She parted her legs a little more, and he pressed and teased her opening with his fingertips. Slipping under the inner elastic, he pushed a finger into her, sliding all the way into the knuckle, loving the way she squirmed and moaned, her eyes squeezing shut. 

"This part of the massage too?” She tried to push back against him, but he pulled his fingers away to start tugging her panties off.

He tossed them aside with a grin, and leaned over her, pressing kisses up along her spine as his hand worked its way back between her legs. “I’m very thorough.”

Her eyebrow arched as she clenched around his finger, her hips pitching up off the bed. "Yes you are, Detect - _oh -_”

A second finger pushed inside her, and she heard the shuffling sound of his belt being undone, followed by the rasp of his zipper.

"You’re pretty tense here too, _Counselor,_" he says, his voice low.

She can sense the smirk on his face just from the low, teasing tone of his voice, and she shivers with pleasure. Shifting up to her knees, she backed up against him, her bare ass rubbing against the front of his boxers and the hard ridge of his cock. 

"Think you can rub that out too?" She smiled and turned her face to the side as he shook his head.

His hips jutted forward as she pressed against him, and he let out a light chuckle as he stopped touching her just long enough to remove his clothes. “Naughty.”

She hummed in agreement, smiling into the pillow as he returned to stroke her slowly. His cock slid between her legs, bumping against her clit and drawing out a shudder and a soft sound. Her legs spread further, her hips rocking back as he teased her. Her back and shoulders felt much better, the tension in them eased, but a new ache was building elsewhere each time he hit her swollen nub. 

Weaver’s hands grabbed her roughly, holding her by the hips to still her movement. She let out a frustrated growl which slipped into a sharp gasp as he brought his palm down on her backside. He rubbed the spot, flushed pink and warm, and then continued up her back, tracing the same paths he had earlier when he soothed her muscles. She groaned and arched her back as she tried to push back against him at the same time, the contrast between the looseness of where he touched her and the burn inside where she wanted him made her head spin.

He drew his hands back, her skin silky from the lotion, and gave her another light spank. Her fingers curled against the sheets, nails scraping lightly as she bit her lip. The sting was a pleasant, prickly heat, a sensation she had felt in a long time. A part of her wanted to urge him to keep going, until she was shaking and crying out for him, but there was so much still between them that held her back even now.

He seemed to know that was all she could handle, and a moment later her legs were pushed apart by his knee, spreading her wide. She tensed at the first push of his cock, the head just breaching her entrance, teasing her with the idea of being stretched and fucked.

"_Ian..._"

A spark ran through him at the sound of his name, and he inched forward, thrusting into her in one long, slow stroke. She gasped when he hit the end of her and started to draw back, her breath catching on another gasp before he pushed back into her hard. Everything was tight and hot, and he groaned as she started rocking her hips back against him, begging him to move. 

His thumbs rubbed little soothing circles on her lower back as he started a slow, steady rhythm, filling the air with the wet sound of their bodies moving together with the backdrop of the music from the other room. He drew his fingers down, brushing over the cleft of her buttocks, and she squirmed, flexing her pussy around his cock. She claws at the sheets as his does it again, panting and pushing back against him.

"I could..." he started to say, circling her ring with his fingertip. "If you want..." 

He couldn’t complete the thought, the feeling of her fluttering around his length almost too much to bear.

"Yeah," she squeaked, with a thrust of her hips against his hand, against his cock. "_Please._"

He pulled out of her and leaned to the side, fumbling with the drawer on the nightstand to retrieve a small bottle of lube. She tried to slow her breathing, but even the sound of the lid snapping open had her pulse thrumming as she stayed there, bent over on the bed with her arse in the air. The bed shifted as he moved, and then there was a warm slickness between her cheeks, and his fingertip spreading it over her. She tried not to move, to fight the urge to force her hips back as he worked his finger inside with achingly slowness. Pressure gave way to pain which gave way to a fullness she hadn’t experienced in so long, and she let out a long, low moan.

Weaver was being as gentle as possible, waiting after each small bit of his finger slipped inside her arse for the little impatient wiggle that told him she was ready for more. Finally, when it was fully in, he turned it carefully, pulling back and stretching her before he pulled it back part way.

"Okay?" His voice was strained and he clenched his jaw at the tight, warm feeling of her flexing around his finger.

"Yeah," she whispered.

He took his cock in his free hand and eased himself back inside her pussy, groaning as his hips met hers. 

"Fuck," he groaned, thrusting once to test the waters. “Tell me."

Belle took a breath, exhaling it slowly as he started to move, the rhythm between his finger and his cock just disparate enough that she couldn’t do anything except let herself feel everything that was happening. 

“Belle -”

"Yeah,” she answered quickly. “Good, really good."

She started working her hips harder, encouraging him as he slid his finger almost all the way out of her ass, and his cock out of her pussy, only to push them back in, a little bit harder each time. He held onto her hip with his other hand trying to steady himself as his eyes rolled back, feeling his finger press through her inner walls, creating another sensation along his length.

Belle pushed up on her hands, and gasped out a shaky curse. She pushed her hips up against him, and he thrust harder into her, a warm rush of pleasure washing over her from head to toe. She tightened around him, crying out with each movement, her legs and arms beginning to quiver as the tension grew in her core.

"Oh fuck..." 

The sound of her voice was louder than expected, and she bit her lip as she slammed her hips back against him. The pressure of his finger amplified the friction from his cock, letting her feel every inch of him, and every time he bottomed out inside her, a little squealing gasp was forced out of her. Full and stretched, she tried to keep up with his movements, but then her arms gave, and she turned her head to the side, resting it on her folded arms as he fucked her to the threshold of a blinding orgasm.

The twinges along his cock was driving him spare, and through gritted teeth he managed to slip his free hand around her hip and press two fingers against her clit. She came with some kind of groan and a bit of a squeal, a delicious sound he’d never heard her make before, but knew he’d love to hear again. Bracing on the bed, he pulled his finger out of her arse as he thrust one more time and came buried inside her, his thrusts slowing along with the twitch of her inner muscles.

They collapsed together on the bed, quiet save for hasty breaths and the lingering thrum of his heart in his ears.

"Damn," she sighed.

He smiled and kissed her shoulder. “Yeah.”

They cleaned themselves up, and then moved back to the bed in silence. He sensed there was something Belle wasn’t saying. She stretched out on her side, facing away from him, and he slipped into the bed, shifting until he was right behind her without touching her body with his. It felt much the same as it had that first night, when she’d woken up in a fit, scared of every shadow. She’d needed him close then, but he didn’t know what she wanted now.

“I told Archie,” she said quietly, “about the miscarriage.”

He felt the breath rush out of him and his throat tense, but at the same time there was relief in knowing what had been bothering her for the last few days. She moved, inching back towards him, and he reached out to pull her against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head and felt her squeeze his arm where it lay around her torso. 

“Okay,” was all he could manage.

Belle swallowed. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his face rubbing against her hair. “S’good. Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Weaver’s arm tightened around her, and she felt his lips against her neck and then her bare shoulder. She’d managed to say the words twice in one week, and, strangely, it seemed to help. Perhaps tomorrow she’d call Archie and see if he was available on Tuesday. Maybe it was the intensity of the sex or the fact that she’d finally told Weaver what had been bothering her, but her body felt more relaxed than it had in months. As she breathed out, it felt like something more than just air left with it, something that maybe she didn't need to keep inside anymore.


End file.
